AMERICAN 

HIGHWAYS 

BYWAYS 

S  E 


UCSB  LIBRARY. 


u 


HIGHWAYS  AND   BYWAYS   FROM 
THE  ST.  LAWRENCE  TO  VIRGINIA 

INCLUDING    THE    STATES    OF 

WEST  VIRGINIA 

PENNSYLVANIA 

NEW  JERSEY 

DELAWARE 

MARYLAND 

NEW  YORK 

VIRGINIA 

AND   THE 

DISTRICT  OF   COLUMBIA 


An  old  Dutch  porch  in  New  Jersey 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS 

FROM  THE 

ST.  LAWRENCE  TO  VIRGINIA 


WRITTEN     AND 
ILLUSTRATED    BY 

CLIFTON    JOHNSON 


Published  by   THE     MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

New  York  MCMXIII 

LONDON:    MACMILLAN  AND  co.,  LIMITED 


Copyright,  1913, 

by  the  Macmillan  Company. 

Set  up  and  Electrotyped. 
Published  September,  1913. 


AMERICAN 
HIGHWAYS  AND   BYWAYS 


FROM  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE 
TO  VIRGINIA 


Electrotyped 

and 

Printed 

by  the 

F.  A.  Bassette  Company 

Springfield,  Mass. 


Contents 

Page 

I.  The  Adirondack  Winter  I 

II.  Midsummer  in  the  Catskills            .  .        26 

III.  The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  .        47 

IV.  The  Land  of  Oil            .          .          .  .81 
V.  An  Industrial  Metropolis       .          .  .      107 

VI.  A  Vale  of  Anthracite    .          .          .  -131 

VII.  A  Famous  Battlefield   .          .          .  -151 

VIII.  The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond           .  .      170 

IX.  Along  Shore  in  Jersey             .          .  .      203 

X.  A  Glimpse  of  Delaware          .          .  .      222 

XI.  Roundabout  the  Nation's  Capital  .      242 

XII.  Maryland  Days 254 

XIII.  Beside  the  Rappahannock     .          .  .      282 

XIV.  June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley      .  .      303 
XV.  West  Virginia  Rambles           .          .  .320 


Illustrations 

An  Old  Dutch  Porch  in  New  Jersey  .          .          Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

Among  the  Mountains      ......          6 

Getting  a  Pail  of  Water   ......        10 

A  Load  of  Logs  on  Lake  Placid          ....        19 

A  Summer  Afternoon        ......        26 

Coming  from  the  Hayfield         .          .          .          .          -35 

Ploughing  one  of  the  Stony  Fields     ....        40 

Going  A-Milking     .......        53 

Skinning  the  Coon  .......        58 

Ready  to  Start  after  Partridges          ....        67 

An  Old-time  Well  That  is  Still  Pumped      .  86 

Oil  Creek  at  Petroleum  Center  ....        90 

Going  to  Town         .......        99 

Braddock's  Battlefield  Viewed  from  Across  the  Monon- 

gahela  ........  107 

A  Toll  Bridge 114 

The  Old  Church  at  Economy  .....  122 
A  Coal  Village  with  a  Mountainous  Culm  Heap  in  the 

Background      .          .          .          .          .          .          .131 

A  Breaker       .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .138 

A  Miner  and  an  Above-ground  Friend        .          .          .      147 
An  Old  Smokehouse          .          ,          .          .          .          .154 

The  Devil's  Den  .  .  .  ^  .163 

The  Haymaker  t  168 

IX 


x  Illustrations 

FACING    PAGE 

A  Boatman  at  the  Gap    ......      181 

The  Old  Wells  weep 186 

Housework      ........      195 

A  Back  Porch          .......     203 

Reflections      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .210 

The  Scarecrow          .          .          .          .          .          .          .218 

The  Wreck      ........      227 

Setting  the  Net        .......      230 

The  Pump  at  the  Back  Door    .....      235 

The  Capitol    ........      240 

At  the  Alexandria  Waterside     .....      247 

At  the  Fishing-place          .          .          .          .          .          .251 

In  the  Garden          .......      258 

Coming  from  the  Spring  ......     266 

The  Wash-house      .......     275 

Old  Homes  in  Fredericksburg   .....      282 

A  Farm  Gate  .......     291 

Making  a  Hoe  Handle      .....          ^     294 

The  Wilderness  Church    ......      298 

The  Shenandoah  River     ......      307 

A  Ferry  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .     311 

The  Great  Chimney          .          .          .          .          .          .315 

A  Log  House  on  the  Mountain  .'         .          .          .322 

Worm  Fences  .          .          .          .          .  331 

Returning  from  the  Post  Office  .          .          .          .338 


Introductory  Note 

All  the  volumes  in  this  series  are  chiefly  concerned 
with  country  life,  especially  that  which  is  typical  and 
picturesque.  To  the  traveller,  no  life  is  more  interest- 
ing, and  yet  there  is  none  with  which  it  is  so  difficult  to 
get  into  close  and  unconventional  contact.  Ordinarily, 
we  catch  only  casual  glimpses.  For  this  reason  I  have 
wandered  much  on  rural  byways,  and  lodged  most  of 
the  time  at  village  hotels  or  in  rustic  homes.  My  trips 
have  taken  me  to  many  characteristic  and  famous 
regions;  but  always,  both  in  text  and  pictures,  I  have 
tried  to  show  actual  life  and  nature  and  to  convey  some 
of  the  pleasure  I  experienced  in  my  intimate  acquain- 
tance with  the  people. 

These  "Highways  and  Byways"  volumes  are  often 
consulted  by  persons  who  are  planning  pleasure  tours. 
To  make  the  books  more  helpful  for  this  purpose  each 
chapter  has  a  note  appended  containing  suggestions 
for  intending  travellers.  With  the  aid  of  these  notes, 
I  think  the  reader  can  readily  decide  what  regions  are 
likely  to  prove  particularly  worth  visiting,  and  will 
know  how  to  see  such  regions  with  the  most  comfort 

and  facility. 

CLIFTON  JOHNSON. 
Hadley,  Mass. 


This  volume  includes  chapters  on 
characteristic,  picturesque,  and 
historically  attractive  regions  in  the 
states  of  New  York,  Pennsylvania, 
New  Jersey,  Delaware,  Maryland  and 
Virginia,  and  a  chapter  on  Washington 
and  its  vicinity.  The  notes  appended 
to  each  chapter  give  valuable  infor- 
mation concerning  automobile  routes, 
and  many  facts  and  suggestions  of 
interest  to  tourists  in  general. 


Highways  and  Byways  from 
the  St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

i 

THE    ADIRONDACK    WINTER 

WHEN  I  decided  to  visit  the  Adirondacks  I  chose 
to  go  to  Lake  Placid.    That  particular  vicinity 
has  two  superlative  attractions — it  is  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  "Great  North  Woods"  where  the 
mountains  lift  their  giant  forms  highest;    and  it  is  here 
that  John  Brown,  the  apostle  of  freedom,  lies  buried 
on  a  little  farm  he  once  tilled. 

March  had  come,  but  winter  had  not  loosed  its  grip, 
and  the  earth  was  wrapped  in  a  coverlet  of  spotless 
white,  and  people  driving  on  the  highways  jogged  about 
on  runners  to  the  cheerful  music  of  sleighbells.  The 
snow  softened  and  rounded  every  contour  of  the  open 
country,  it  hid  the  roofs  of  the  buildings,  and  Nature 
had  used  it  in  a  recent  storm  to  playfully  decorate  all 
the  trees. 

My  first  walk  began  early  in  the  morning  when  the 
children  were  on  their  way  to  school.  They  were  sturdy 


2        Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

youngsters,  and  the  boys  were  apt  to  protect  their  legs 
and  feet  with  heavy  outer  socks  and  overshoes  such  as 
woodsmen  wear.  "Well,"  one  of  the  dwellers  in  the 
village  by  the  lake  commented,  "the  little  tads  need 
to  dress  that  way,  knocking  around  in  the  snow  as 
they  do." 

I  could  easily  agree  with  him  when  later  I  passed  a 
district  schoolhouse  that  occupied  a  wayside  knoll  in 
an  outlying  section  of  the  village.  The  children,  while 
waiting  for  the  final  call  of  the  bell  in  the  little  cupola, 
were  having  a  riotous  snowballing  frolic  and  were 
powdered  from  head  to  foot.  It  seemed  to  be  a  good- 
natured  tumult,  except  that  the  boys  were  kicking 
around  one  of  the  girl's  rubbers,  which  the  owner,  with 
shrill-voiced  protests,  was  trying  to  rescue.  The  school- 
house  had  stood  there  before  any  church  had  been  built 
in  the  region,  and  John  Brown  used  to  attend  Sunday 
services  in  it. 

Somewhat  farther  on  I  asked  directions  to  the  Brown 
Farm  of  a  man  at  work  in  the  highway  digging  through 
a  drift.  He  said  that  the  summer  road  to  the  farm  was 
not  broken  out,  and  I  would  have  to  go  roundabout  by 
the  winding  winter  road  through  the  woods.  While  we 
were  talking  two  men  passed  us.  They  had  bags  on 
their  backs  and  were  headed  for  some  lumber  camp. 
The  previous  day  the  town  had  voted  for  licence  and 
these  men  had  backed  up  their  views  on  the  subject  by 
such  liberal  potations  that  the  road  was  not  wide  enough 
for  them.  One  of  them,  when  he  came  to  the  drift,  lost 


The  Adirondack  Winter  3 

his  footing  altogether  and  had  to  be  helped  up  out  of 
the  snow  by  his  companion. 

Presently  I  went  on  into  the  forest  of  bare-limbed 
birches  and  maples  mingled  with  dark  spruces  and 
balsams,  and  when  I  emerged  from  the  woodland  there 
was  the  John  Brown  homestead  before  me  off  across  a 
pasture.  The  group  of  buildings  stood  lonely  amid  the 
environing  snows,  the  last  home  on  a  country  byway. 
Beyond  was  a  deep  ravine  and  a  little  river,  and  all 
around  the  horizon  loomed  the  sober  mountain  heights. 
Prominent  amid  the  wooded  ranges  was  Whiteface 
Mountain,  a  pyramidal  peak  whose  summit  was  bare 
of  trees,  and  white  as  if  capped  with  eternal  snow;  and 
on  the  opposite  horizon  was  the  big  dome  of  Mt.  Marcy, 
also  bare  and  white. 

The  Brown  Farm  is  the  property  of  the  state,  and  a 
caretaker  occupies  the  low,  rambling,  unpainted  house. 
Except  for  a  veranda  on  two  sides,  the  dwelling  is 
practically  as  it  was  when  Brown  lived  in  it  from  1849 
to  the  time  of  his  fatal  raid  on  Harper's  Ferry.  There 
were  no  trees  about  the  buildings,  and  this  was  the  case 
with  nearly  all  the  other  scattered  farm  homes.  They 
were  rather  frail  and  uncouth  frame  structures,  wholly 
exposed  to  heat  and  cold  and  the  assaults  of  the  storms. 

A  few  steps  from  the  dwelling  of  the  old  Abolitionist 
was  an  inclosure  protected  by  a  stout  iron  fence,  and 
here  was  some  shrubbery,  a  tall  flagpole,  an  enormous 
rock,  and  a  lowly  gray  gravestone  sheltered  from  a 
souvenir-crazy  public  by  a  glass-sided  box.  Near  the 


4        Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

back  door  of  the  house  was  a  great  pile  of  wood,  and 
in  the  shed  a  man  was  sawing  the  sticks  into  stove 
length.  He  was  preparing  his  fuel  supply  for  the  coming 
twelve  months,  and  behind  him  rose  the  compact  piles 
of  split  wood.  For  a  little  while  he  left  his  work  to 
show  me  a  small  room  that  had  been  Brown's  "office," 
and  which  contained  in  its  rude,  meagre  furnishings  a 
round  table,  a  straight-backed  chair,  and  a  cupboard 
"they  claim"  Brown  had  used. 

When  I  left  the  farm  I  was  tempted  to  turn  aside 
from  the  road  and  follow  some  footsteps  that  I  thought 
would  guide  me  across  a  wooded  valley  to  another  road 
I  could  see  on  an  opposite  hill.  The  trail  meandered 
through  the  fields,  and  then  down  a  steep  wooded  in- 
cline into  a  swamp.  There  my  unknown  guide  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  sense  of  direction,  and  went  zigzagging 
hither  and  thither,  hurdling  over  so  many  fallen  trees, 
that  I  became  discouraged  and  turned  back. 

But  how  beautiful  it  was  in  that  wild  woodland, 
which  the  all-enveloping  snow  had  converted  into  a 
realm  of  magic!  The  dark  branches  of  the  evergreens 
drooped  gracefully  beneath  the  fluffy,  glistening  masses, 
and  every  stump  and  stone  and  fallen  tree-trunk  was 
softly  cushioned.  A  light  breeze  whispered  through 
the  upper  boughs  and  now  and  then  dislodged  some  of 
the  snow  and  sent  it  rustling  down;  and  over  all  was 
the  deep  blue  sky,  no  less  marvellously  pure  in  color 
than  the  snow  itself.  I  heard  a  few  chickadees  softly 
chattering,  and  the  scream  of  a  jay,  but  I  would  hardly 


The  Adirondack  Winter  5 

have  suspected  that  any  other  life  existed  in  the  quiet 
woodland,  were  it  not  that  I  saw  the  handwriting  of  the 
wild  creatures  on  the  fair  page  of  the  snow.  There  were 
their  tell-tale  tracks,  and  I  wondered  what  pleasure,  what 
business,  or  what  stern  need  had  made  them  fare  forth. 

I  did  not  go  directly  back  to  the  village  but  continued 
to  ramble  on  the  country  roads.  Once  I  passed  a 
cemetery.  It  was  on  the  bleak  shoulder  of  a  hill  at 
some  remove  from  the  nearest  habitation,  and  in  it  was 
a  woman  with  a  muff  pressed  against  her  face  crying 
in  a  heart-broken  way  over  a  new-made  grave.  Round- 
about was  the  vast  white  world  and  the  big  serene 
mountains,  and  overhead  the  majestic  cerulean  dome 
of  the  sky — nature  so  steadfast  and  unpitying  con- 
trasted with  that  dark,  whimpering  human  figure 
bowed  with  grief,  helpless,  crushed! 

Farther  on  I  came  across  a  man  who  was  filling  a  pail 
from  a  dipping-place  in  a  wayside  stream.  Many  of 
the  farm  folk  depend  on  such  a  source  for  their  house- 
hold water-supply.  The  man  informed  me  that  I  was 
on  the  old  military  road  which  was  laid  out  westerly 
from  Lake  Champlain  through  the  Adirondacks. 
"When  they  were  making  it,"  he  said,  "they  did  n't 
turn  out  for  anything.  They  sighted  from  one  hill  to 
another  and  made  a  pretty  middlin'  straight  road. 
But  a  good  deal  of  it  has  been  abandoned  now." 

I  mentioned  that  I  had  been  to  the  John  Brown 
Farm,  and  he  said  he  had  a  picture  of  Brown  that  he 
would  show  me  if  I  would  go  to  the  house  with  him. 


6        Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

He  led  the  way  through  a  decrepit  gate,  and  escorted 
me  into  the  sitting-room,  where  I  sat  down  by  the 
stove.  There  was  a  rag  carpet  on  the  floor,  and,  con- 
spicuous on  the  walls,  were  ghastly,  enlarged  photo- 
graphs in  ponderous  frames.  My  host  was  smoking  a 
pipe,  and  he  continued  to  wear  his  hat — a  faded,  band- 
less  affair  with  the  crown  full  of  holes  like  a  pepper  box. 
We  were  soon  joined  by  his  mother,  a  thin,  elderly 
woman,  who  wore  spectacles  and  earrings. 

"Here  is  the  picture  of  John  Brown,"  the  man  said, 
"and  I  want  you  to  see  this  other  picture  of  a  hen  and 
rooster  that  I  own.  A  feller  took  that  picture  with  a 
little  hand  camera.  Well,  sir,  he  ketched  'em  just  right. 
They  was  on  a  dung  hill,  and  the  rooster  was  crowing. 
One  of  the  storekeepers  in  the  village  is  goin'  to  have 
the  photograph  enlarged  to  put  in  his  window.  Ain't 
that  rooster  natural  as  life  now? 

"Did  the  man  over  on  the  farm  take  the  cover  off 
the  gravestone  for  you?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  "probably  it  is  frozen  down." 

"That  don't  matter,"  my  host  commented.  "He'd 
'a'  worked  like  the  old  Harry  to  get  it  up  if  you'd  given 
him  a  quarter.  The  stone  would  have  been  all  gone 
long  ago  if  they  did  n't  keep  it  protected.  If  you  had 
a  piece  off  it  as  big  as  the  end  of  your  thumb  you  could 
sell  it  for  a  good  price. 

"How'd  you  like  to  have  that  caretaker's  job? 
He  ought  to  be  able  to  make  money  hand  over 
fist.  He  don't  have  to  pay  out  for  taxes,  or  repairs,  or 


The  Adirondack  Winter  7 

nawthin',  and  he  can  sell  the  crops,  and  he  gits  a  good 
deal  of  small  coin  from  the  visitors.  He  has  a  good 
chance." 

"I'm  seventy-seven  years  old,"  the  woman  observed, 
"and  I  can  remember  when  the  Browns  drove  in  their 
cattle  at  the  time  they  came  here." 

"When  I  was  a  young  feller  goin'  to  school,"  the  man 
said,  "I  was  at  a  neighbor's  one  day,  and  they  had  an 
ox  there  that  they  told  me  had  belonged  to  John  Brown. 
He  was  about  the  biggest  ox  I  ever  see.  My  gosh!  he 
looked  like  a  mountain  beside  of  me." 

"I  was  often  over  to  John  Brown's  house  when  he 
lived  there,"  the  woman  said.  "  'Twa'n't  but  a  few 
steps  from  where  I  lived.  But  the  most  I  remember 
about  his  looks  was  the  way  his  hair  was  brushed 
straight  up  from  his  forehead.  He  had  a  great  bushy 
beard  when  he  died,  but  I  think  he  grew  that  for  a  dis- 
guise. ,  Earlier  he  was  a  smooth-faced  man.  The  family 
would  walk  to  church  at  the  schoolhouse.  We  did  n't 
think  we'd  got  to  ride  every  time  we  went  anywhere  in 
them  days.  I  s'pose  it  was  a  mile  and  a  half.  The 
youngest  child  was  a  babe  the  last  part  of  the  time  the 
Browns  lived  here,  and  Watson  Brown  would  come  to 
church  carrying  the  babe  in  his  arms.  Watson  is  the 
one  they  claimed  had  his  bones  wired  together.  Let 
me  see — when  did  they  bring  those  bodies  here?  It 
was  the  summer  Mary  Bush  died,  and  that  was  more 
than  twenty  years  ago.  You  know  two  of  John  Brown's 
sons  was  killed  at  Harper's  Ferry — Oliver  and  Watson. 


8        Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Well,  they  say  a  doctor  who  wanted  a  skeleton  got  hold 
of  Watson's  body,  and  when  the  bones  was  sent  home 
to  be  buried  on  the  old  farm  they  was  wired  together. 
That's  what  I've  always  heard. 

"But  you  can't  tell  for  certain  what  to  believe  and 
what  not.  Once  I  was  out  on  the  piazza  with  my  big 
spinning-wheel  twisting  yarn,  and  some  city  people 
stopped  to  see  me  work.  They'd  been  over  to  the  John 
Brown  Farm,  and  pretty  soon  they  sot  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  piazza  and  begun  to  tell  about  this  and  that 
thing  at  the  farm  which  had  belonged  to  John  Brown. 
Well,  John  Brown  never  see  any  of  them  things.  But 
when  people  tell  a  story  long  enough  it  gets  to  be  a 
fact." 

"I'll  tell  you,  my  friend,"  the  man  said  with  em- 
phasis, "there's  more  daubed  on  to  John  Brown's 
history  than  a  little.  It's  something  like  the  old  man's 
cider  barrel.  He  said  it  was  the  same  old  cider  barrel, 
but  he'd  had  to  repair  it  from  time  to  time  till  there 
wa'n't  nawthin  left  of  the  original  barrel  but  the 
bunghole. 

"You'd  be  surprised  how  many  people  visit  that 
farm  in  the  summer.  If  I  could  have  a  cent  apiece  for 
those  that  go  there — gracious!  I'd  be  rich.  It's  a  sort 
of  craze.  There's  some  persons  just  as  animated  over 
that  grave  as  over  a  gold  mine. 

"Here,  I  want  you  to  look  at  this  grub  hoe.  You 
can  see  that  it  is  old-fashioned,  and  was  made  by  a 
blacksmith.  I  found  it  over  on  the  John  Brown  Farm. 


The  Adirondack  Winter  9 

We  were  having  a  big  conflagration,  and  I  was  then 
righting  fire.  I  was  using  a  common  shovel,  and  this 
hoe  was  about  a  foot  down  in  the  ground.  I  was  glad 
to  get  it — golly,  yes!  and  I  put  a  club  into  it,  and  dug 
dirt  to  fight  the  fire  with.  I  'spose,  because  I  found  it 
on  John  Brown's  farm,  I  might  say  it  was  his'n — sure 
it  was!  Then  just  a  little  corner  of  it  would  be  worth 
as  much  as  ten  dollars  for  a  souvenir. 

"That  was  an  awful  fire  we  had.  It  was  in  1908, 
and  a  very  dry  time.  They  were  having  fires  all  over 
the  country.  Fires  begun  in  the  Adirondacks  'long 
about  the  middle  of  summer.  We  could  n't  breathe 
nawthin'  but  smoke  for  a  while.  Once  the  fire  was 
right  up  here  back  of  us  in  the  woods.  That  was  a  little 
closter  than  we  wanted  it  to  be.  It  was  so  near  we 
did  n't  dare  sleep  nights.  Why,  we  reckoned  our  place 
was  a  goner  and  we  kep'  barrels  and  tubs,  and  such  like, 
full  of  water  ready  all  around  the  barn.  But  the  wind 
happened  to  favor  us.  At  night  we  could  see  the  fires 
burning  on  the  mountains  in  every  direction.  They 
had  a  darn  nice  little  time  with  the  fire  on  that  moun- 
tain you  can  see  from  the  window  over  to  the  north- 
ward. There  was  lots  of  downstuff,  and  though  the 
mountain  is  three  miles  away  we  could  hear  the  fire 
roaring  like  the  noise  of  a  high  wind.  It  cleaned  off 
the  hull  mountain  and  left  nawthin'  but  the  bare  rocks 
and  a  few  charred  tree  trunks. 

"That's  the  worst  fire  we've  ever  had,  but  I  expect 
there's  goin'  to  be  just  as  big  in  the  future,  the  way 


io      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

they're  fixin'  things.  You  know  the  state  has  some 
great  forest  reserves  here,  and  the  laws  are  very  strict 
about  the  timber,  and  the  officials  are  quick  to  prose- 
cute and  fine  trespassers.  There's  considerable  chewin' 
about  it,  and  somebody  is  goin'  to  burn  the  state  forest 
out  of  revenge.  It's  gettin'  so  a  poor  man  don't  have 
any  chance.  They  put  his  nose  down  on  the  grindstone 
and  make  him  turn  the  handle.  You've  got  to  have  a 
licence  to  carry  a  gun,  and  it's  'gainst  the  law  to  keep 
a  dog  unless  he's  tagged  and  registered.  Most  of  the 
year  I  can't,  'cordin'  to  law,  go  right  out  there  in  the 
yard  and  rake  up  a  mess  of  chips  and  burn  'em.  I 
could  this  time  of  year,  but  what's  the  use?  The  chips 
would  n't  burn.  One  of  our  neighbors  piled  up  some 
stumps  in  the  middle  of  a  ploughed  field  and  burned 
'em.  They  fined  him  twenty-five  dollars.  Would  n't 
that  make  you  crusty? 

"The  state  has  put  men  on  the  mountain  tops  to 
watch  for  fires  in  the  dry  part  of  the  year.  Telephone 
lines  connect  the  lookout  stations  with  the  villages,  so 
as  soon  as  a  fire  starts  we  know  where  it  is  and  get  right 
out  to  fight  it.  But  they  take  these  college  pups  just 
graduated  for  the  fire  patrol.  Why  can't  some  of  us 
local  men  have  the  job?  It's  a  snap;  for  they're  paid 
seventy-five  or  eighty  dollars  a  month.  That  money 
would  come  in  pretty  handy  for  some  of  us  here.  You 
can't  hardly  make  a  livin'  farmin'.  The  climate  is  too 
cold  to  raise  corn  or  to  ripen  potatoes,  and  the  biggest 
share  of  the  men  go  to  the  woods  in  winter.  That's 


Getting  a  pail  of  water 


The  Adirondack  Winter  1 1 

where  I'd  be  if  it  wa'n't  for  mother.  But  there's  just 
her  'n  me,  and  she  don't  like  to  stay  alone.  Besides, 
somebody  had  to  do  the  chores." 

"We  been  havin'  very  mild  weather  for  the  time  of 
year,"  the  woman  said.  "I  never  saw  such  a  winter, 
old  as  I  am.  We've  had  very  few  zero  nights,  and  only 
a  little  snow.  I  can  remember  winters  when  the  snow 
was  so  deep  you  could  n't  see  a  fence  nowhere." 

"Yes,"  the  man  added,  "this  road  here  used  to  have 
a  high  zigzag  rail  fence  along  it  to  keep  cattle  in  the 
pastures.  Stakes  was  drove  at  every  angle,  and  there's 
been  so  much  snow  you  could  n't  see  none  of  them 
stakes.  When  I  was  young  it  was  mostly  forest  here, 
and  the  snow  did  n't  drift  much,  but  now,  by  gol!  the 
trees  along  the  roads  have  been  cut  off,  and  the  wind 
gets  a  chance  to  stir  the  snow  around." 

"We  used  to  travel  a  good  deal  on  horseback,"  the 
woman  said.  "My  folks  lived  in  Keene,  over  the 
mountain,  and  my  Uncle  Lon  lived  here.  You  could  n't 
hardly  drive  a  wagon  over  the  mountain  road  the  stones 
were  so  high.  Uncle  Lon  liked  to  have  me  come  and 
visit  at  his  house  and  help  take  care  of  the  children. 
At  the  time  I  made  my  first  visit  I  was  so  small  I  had 
to  stand  up  on  a  little  chair  to  wash  the  dishes,  and 
uncle  fetched  me  on  horseback  in  his  arms.  When  I 
grew  larger  I'd  ride  on  the  horse  behind  him.  Like 
enough  I'd  stay  three  or  four  months.  I  went  to  school 
some,  but  people  wa'n't  very  particular  then  whether 
the  children  got  any  education  or  not." 


12      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"That's  so,"  the  man  corroborated,  "the  parents 
would  send  a  boy  to  school,  and  if  he  went,  all  right, 
and  if  he  did  n't  go,  all  right.  I've  started  for  school 
and  never  see  it  that  day.  Maybe  I'd  come  down  to 
your  house,  and  you'd  have  a  boy,  and  the  two  of  us 
would  go  off  playing.  I  never  went  to  school  much  any 
way,  by  gracious !  Father  had  inflammatory  rheumatism 
and  wa'n't  sost  he  could  do  anything.  I  had  to  begin 
workin'  pretty  young.  Soon  as  I  could  pick  up  a  pan 
of  chips  I  was  at  it.  But  the  children  are  obleeged  to 
go  to  school  now,  and  if  a  boy  stays  away  the  truant 
officer  is  at  his  heels,  and  when  he  finds  the  boy  fishin' 
or  something  he  says,  'What  in  thunder  are  you  doin' 
here?'  and  sends  him  back  to  his  books. 

"Children  at  twelve  years  old  now  know  more  than 
a  man  grown  did  under  the  old  style.  But  they  don't 
study  at  school.  They  just  recite,  and  then  bring  their 
books  home  and  spend  all  the  evenin'  writin'  out  their 
lessons  for  the  next  day.  They  know  more,  and  yet 
they  ain't  as  hardy  as  they  used  to  be.  It's  as  the 
Bible  says — 'People  grow  weaker  as  they  grow  wiser.' 

"When  I  was  a  boy  we  had  three  months'  school  in 
winter,  and  the  same  in  summer,  in  charge  of  common 
deestrict  school  teachers  who  never'd  had  much 
schoolin'  themselves.  They  boarded  round  and  stayed 
at  the  houses  of  the  folks  who  sent  children — three 
nights  a  term  for  each  scholar.  Some  of  us  lived  two 
or  three  miles  from  the  schoolhouse,  and  if  the  snow 
come  deep  the  man  who  lived  farthest  off  on  a  road 


The  Adirondack  Winter  13 

would  probably  take  his  ox  team  and  break  out  a  track 
and  pick  up  the  scholars  along. 

"Well,  what  changes  have  taken  place  since  I  was  a 
boy!  Gosh!  who'd  ever  think  I'd  live  to  see  a  wagon 
goin'  rippity  slash  through  the  street  with  no  horse 
hitched  to  it;  or  a  bicycle  goin'  along  without  havin' 
to  pump  it!  And  there's  trolley  cars.  Golly!  I  could  n't 
understand  'em  at  all  until  I  went  out  of  the  mountains 
and  saw  'em. 

"Fifty  years  ago  this  country  was  pretty  much 
primeval  forest,  with  families  startin'  in  here  and  there 
to  clear  up  a  chunk  of  land.  They'd  chop  down  the 
trees  and  pile  'em  up  and  burn  'em.  Then  they'd  put 
in  potatoes,  turnips,  or  oats,  and  as  soon  as  they  could 
they'd  stock  the  ground  down  in  among  the  stumps  to 
raise  some  hay  for  their  cattle.  You'd  understand 
what  it  means  to  start  a  home  in  the  wilderness  if  you'd 
drove  a  single  A  drag  as  much  as  I  have  on  new  land 
where  it's  nawthin'  but  ketch  and  twitch  and  jerk 
around  all  the  time. 

"After  a  while  the  city  people  began  to  come  in  here 
for  the  huntin'  and  fishin'.  There  was  no  accommoda- 
tion for  them  except  at  the  little  farmhouses,  and  per- 
haps the  farmers  did  n't  have  any  room  to  spare.  But 
those  fellers  would  n't  take  'No'  for  an  answer.  If 
they  could  n't  get  a  chance  to  sleep  on  one  of  the  cord 
bedsteads  they'd  sleep  on  the  floor,  or  in  the  barn — 
anywhere.  And  they  were  men  with  money,  mind  you 
— lots  of  it.  They  don't  rough  it  that  way  now.  Why, 


14      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

even  the  fellers  they  hire  to  drive  'em  around  got  to 
have  on  gloves,  and  a  b'iled  shirt,  and  a  plug  hat;  and 
you  can't  tell  the  drivers  from  the  city  men. 

"We  had  bears  and  wolves  here,  when  I  was  a  small 
kid,  and  this  was  a  wild  country.  Good  Lord!  I've 
seen  deer  playin'  down  here  on  the  plains  like  a  mess  of 
calves.  Deer  are  naturally  tame,  and  a  good  deal  like 
the  sheep  specie.  You'd  see  one  of  'em  or  hear  a  fawn 
blat,  you  know,  and  you'd  take  your  gun  and  go  out 
and  knock  it  down  in  no  time.  But  now  they've  been 
so  frightened  they  keep  way  back  in  the  big  woods; 
and  yet  the  law  won't  let  you  kill  nawthin'  but  bucks 
and  only  two  of  them  in  a  season.  The  trouble  is 
there's  too  many  hunters,  and  all  kinds  of  game  is 
gettin'  scarce." 

"Uncle  Lon  killed  lots  of  deer,"  the  woman  observed. 
"He  could  go  out  and  shoot  one  anytime.  I  know 
we'd  just  got  up  one  mornin'  and  his  wife  said,  'We 
ain't  got  no  meat.' ' 

"He  went  to  the  door  and  looked  down  on  the 
meadow,  and  there  he  see  four  deer  feedin'.  'Now 
don't  make  no  noise,'  he  says,  and  he  crep'  down  a 
little  ways  and  shot  one  of  the  deer,  and  we  had  venison 
for  breakfast. 

"I  always  liked  this  country.  I  went  away  to  live 
once,  but  I  was  glad  to  git  back.  It  seems  more  like 
home  to  me  here  than  any  other  place.  But  the 
timber's  gittin'  less  and  less,  and  the  region  don't  look 
like  it  used  to  look." 


The  Adirondack  Winter  15 

"This  used  to  be  a  great  country  for  fishin',''  the 
man  affirmed.  "Why,  right  out  in  the  little  brook  that 
you  see  in  the  holler  you  could  ketch  trout  that  would 
weigh  over  a  pound.  You  did  n't  have  to  travel  a  life- 
time to  get  a  mess  of  fish.  No,  sir!  you  could  fish  down 
that  brook  twenty  rods  and  git  all  you  could  eat— 
more'n  you  could  git  fishin'  twenty  miles  now.  What 
I  call  sport  is  all  gone.  Oh,  gol!  there  ain't  nawthin' 
now,  my  friend.  They've  cut  down  the  big  forests,  the 
fire  has  got  in  here,  and  the  brooks  and  streams  are 
dryin'  up.  I  don't  see  what  people  come  up  here  for. 
Still,  it's  a  healthy  climate,  and  the  air  is  fine  for  con- 
sumptives. Saranac  Lake  is  a  great  resort  for  lungers, 
but  they  knock  the  summer  business  and  are  not  allowed 
at  the  Lake  Placid  hotels. 

"You  ought  to  'a'  been  here  last  week  to  our  carnival. 
It  was  a  two  days'  affair,  and  we  kep'  things  busy  all 
the  time.  We  had  shows,  marchin'  and  drillin',  horse- 
racin',  slidin',  and  skatin';  and  it  was  all  got  up  by 
just  us  folks  here,  and  we  chipped  in  so  as  to  have  some 
little  purses  for  prizes.  If  we're  goin'  to  have  any  fun 
here  in  the  mountains  we  got  to  provide  it  ourselves. 
The  men  would  git  onto  their  double  sleds  and  go  down 
the  toboggan  slides  clear  across  the  lake,  three  quarters 
of  a  mile.  Oh,  my  lord!  they  went  so  fast  they  had  to 
lean  against  each  other  way  over  forward  to  keep  on. 

"You'd  'a'  laughed  to  see  the  skatin'  races.  One  of 
the  skaters  was  a  young  feller  named  Hennessy — Jim 
Hennessy's  son.  He's  only  sixteen,  and  small  and  slim. 


16      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Good  land!  his  leg  ain't  as  big  as  my  wrist,  and  that's 
the  truth  if  I  don't  ever  speak  again.  You'd  say  the 
wind  would  blow  him  over,  he's  so  slender.  But  he 
took  the  prize  in  the  boy's  class,  and  then  he  entered 
the  men's  class  in  competition  with  some  great  big 
fellers  from  the  hotels.  It  was  surprisin'  what  energy 
there  was  in  that  kid.  He  dropped  right  behind  the 
fastest  one  of  the  men  skaters  and  trailed  him.  I 
wanted  to  have  a  little  fun,  and  I  said  to  some  of  the 
hotel  fellers  standin'  lookin'  on,  'Here's  ten  dollars 
that  the  blue-shirted  feller  wins.' 

"But  they  did  n't  dare  to  take  me  up.  It  was  a  two 
mile  course,  and  when  they  neared  the  end  Hennessy 
made  a  spurt  and  came  in  ahead.  'What  do  you  think 
of  my  little  Irishman  now?'  I  says.  Oh,  wa'n't  the 
hotel  men  sick! 

"One  evenin'  of  the  carnival  the  folks  dressed  up  in 
fancy  costumes.  They  rigged  up  in  every  darned  thing 
you  could  think  of  to  disguise  'em.  They  was  dressed 
in  all  kinds  of  shapes — as  old  farmers,  Indians,  niggers, 
and  everything.  Oh!  'twas  lovely.  Two  of  the  girls 
fixed  up  as  angels,  wings  and  all,  and  they  was  dandy. 
You  could  n't  tell  who  they  was — even  their  own 
mothers  did  n't  know  'em." 

It  was  evening  when  I  returned  to  the  village,  and 
the  sun  had  set,  and  all  the  landscape  was  in  shadow 
except  the  mountain  summits.  The  higher  ridges  had 
been  glazed  by  an  ice  storm,  and  while  their  bases  were 
a  dusky  purple  the  sunlight  lingered  on  the  frosty 


The  Adirondack  Winter  17 

heights  imparting  a  soft  ethereal  glow  that  was  quite 
Alpine  in  its  effect. 

I  had  been  advised  to  call  on  Byron  Brewster,  if  I 
wanted  information  about  John  Brown.  "You  get 
Byron  wound  up  and  you'll  hear  something,"  my  ad- 
viser declared. 

So  I  called  on  him.  "John  Brown  came  here,"  he 
said,  "when  this  was  new  country,  but  he  bought  a 
farm  where  a  house  had  been  built  and  some  of  the 
woods  cleared  off.  The  nearest  village  was  two  miles 
west  at  Saranac  Lake,  where  there  was  a  little  store 
and  possibly  a  dozen  houses.  We  were  connected  with 
the  outside  world  by  a  stage  line  that  had  its  eastern 
terminus  on  Lake  Champlain.  The  driver  made  a  trip 
once  a  week,  and  he  went  on  horseback  usually.  When 
he  took  a  wagon  it  was  an  old-fashioned  buckboard. 

"One  of  the  Abolitionist  leaders  owned  a  great  tract 
of  Adirondack  land,  and  they  planned  to  settle  colonies 
of  free  negroes  on  it.  Brown  brought  some  of  the  colored 
people  here,  but  they  could  n't  stand  so  cold  a  climate, 
and  they  did  n't  stay  long. 

"Brown's  oldest  son,  Oliver,  married  my  sister,  and 
the  little  room  that  is  called  Brown's  office  was  their 
bedroom.  Brown  never  had  any  use  for  an  office  in 
the  house,  for  he  never  was  to  home  only  a  few  days  at 
a  time.  He  was  busy  travelling  around  freeing  the 
slaves,  a  little  squad  at  a  time.  I  know  because  I  lived 
in  his  family  for  several  years.  My  folks  had  ten 
children — the  families  was  all  large  here  then — and  if  a 


1 8      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

kid  could  be  disposed  of  so  he  earned  his  own  living,  so 
much  the  better.  Captain  John  Brown  was  a  noble 
man,  and  he  had  a  saint  for  a  woman — one  of  the  finest 
this  world  ever  had.  They  were  very  poor  and  could 
just  barely  get  along;  and  I  remember  this — I  never 
shall  forget  it — when  Brown  was  talking  with  the 
family  about  their  hardships  he  told  'em  it  was  always 
darkest  just  before  the  dawn.  He  was  sure  God  would 
take  care  of  them.  Oh!  yes,  I  tell  you  he  believed  in 
the  Almighty  as  much  as  any  man  who  ever  lived.  All 
of  his  family  were  in  sympathy  with  him,  and  were 
ready  to  risk  their  lives  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  My 
sister  went  down  to  where  he  and  his  followers  lived  in 
a  farmhouse  near  Harper's  Ferry  and  kep'  house  for 
'em  while  they  was  gettin'  ready  to  capture  the  arsenal." 

One  evening  I  dropped  in  at  a  village  store  where 
several  teamsters  were  lounging  on  counters  and  boxes 
visiting  and  smoking.  They  were  talking  about  the 
logs  they  had  been  drawing  and  other  forest  topics.  It 
seemed  that  the  villagers  drew  most  of  the  logs  from 
the  woods  to  the  mills  or  the  streamsides,  and  that  the 
lumberjacks  in  the  camps  were  as  a  rule  immigrants 
"from  all  over  the  world,"  with  Canadian  French, 
"Polocks,"  and  Italians  predominant. 

I  asked  how  soon  the  Adirondack  forests  were  likely 
to  be  exhausted. 

"Well,"  one  of  the  men  responded,  "twenty  years 
ago  a  pulp  mill  was  built  here,  and  they  claimed  then 
that  five  years  would  do  the  forest  up,  and  our  good 


A  load  of  logs  on  Lake  Placid 


The  Adirondack  Winter  19 

timber  would  be  all  gone;  but  we  are  getting  out  just 
as  much  now  as  ever,  and  there's  lots  left. 

"There  ain't  much  big  pine  left  on  the  mountains," 
the  storekeeper  remarked.  "The  biggest  pine  I've 
seen  lately  was  one  the  flood  brought  down  on  the 
meadow  last  spring.  It  was  an  old  walloper,  and  sound 
as  a  nut.  Some  one  up  above  had  used  it  for  a  foot- 
bridge. The  sawed  lumber  from  it  sold  for  seventy-five 
dollars." 

"Look  at  the  fine  timber  back  here  on  the  state 
land,"  one  of  the  teamsters  said.  "There's  not  only 
the  growing  trees,  but  millions  of  feet  of  dead  trees 
where  the  fires  have  run  through  that  are  still  good  saw 
timber  and  pulp  wood.  Those  dead  trees  ought  to  be 
got  out  instead  of  bein'  allowed  to  lay  there  rottin' 
doin'  no  good  to  nobody.  But  the  state  won't  hardly 
let  you  cut  a  whipstalk  on  its  land,  and  if  you  take  off 
a  tree — even  a  dead  one — you're  fined  twenty-five 
dollars." 

"Well,"  the  storekeeper  said,  "if  people  were  given 
a  chance  to  take  the  dead  timber  it  would  n't  be  long 
before  they'd  get  in  the  green  timber.  They  will  sneak 
it  off  in  spite  of  everything.  They  just  hog  it.  There's 
houses  right  here  in  this  town  built  out  of  timber  stole 
from  the  state." 

"The  fire  has  got  more  timber  than  the  lumberjacks 
have  here  in  the  Adirondacks,"  one  of  the  teamsters 
asserted. 

"Yes,"  the  storekeeper  agreed,  "in  1908  there  was 


2O      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

one  piece  of  fire  over  twelve  miles  long.  I  went  through 
to  Utica  on  the  train  and  saw  fire  every  few  minutes, 
either  in  the  grass  or  the  woods,  the  whole  distance. 
At  the  same  time  there  was  fire  every  gol  darn  inch  of 
the  way  from  here  to  Loon  Lake.  For  weeks  we 
could  n't  see  the  mountains  the  smoke  was  so  thick. 
Lots  of  the  summer  people  dug  out.  They  were  afraid 
of  their  lives.  I  used  to  work  all  the  week  in  the  store 
and  go  out  Sundays  to  fight  fire.  We  could  n't  make 
much  headway.  It  was  the  same  as  if  a  man  tried  to 
bail  out  the  ocean — pretty  near.  The  fire  would  break 
across  the  paths  we  made  to  stop  it,  and  we  could 
only  keep  narrowing  it  up  a  little.  It  burnt  till  we 
had  a  snowstorm  the  week  before  election.  Fighting 
forest  fires  that  year  cost  this  town  ten  thousand 
dollars. 

"Another  bad  year  was  1902.  We  had  windy  days 
then  when  the  fire  went  faster'n  a  man  could  run,  and 
flashed  right  up  to  the  top  of  the  green  balsams.  Some 
of  our  bad  fires  are  started  by  the  city  men.  They  get 
a  drink  or  two  into  'em  and  then  don't  know  nothin' 
and  are  careless  about  their  campfires." 

"Well,  sir,  we  had  a  saucy  little  fight  year  before 
last,"  a  teamster  remarked.  "There'd  been  a  thunder- 
storm, with  a  little  spurt  of  rain,  and  the  lightning 
started  a  blaze  in  some  dry  timber.  It  burnt  over 
thirty  or  forty  acres  before  we  got  it  under  control,  and 
then  we  had  to  keep  men  watching  it  for  a  week  because 
it  had  worked  down  into  the  duff.  That  duff  was 


The  Adirondack  Winter  21 

fifteen  inches   or  so  thick,  and  the  fire  kept  smould- 
ering in  it  and  every  little  while  would  break  out. 

"  I  worked  for  Rockefeller  most  of  that  season.  You 
know  he  has  a  big  estate  down  below  here  a  ways. 
There  used  to  be  farmhouses — yes,  and  villages  on  it, 
but  he  bought  the  owners  all  out,  or  froze  'em  out.  One 
feller  was  determined  not  to  sell,  and  as  a  sample  of 
how  things  was  made  uncomfortable  for  him  I  heard 
tell  that  two  men  came  to  his  house  once  and  made  him 
a  present  of  some  venison.  They  had  hardly  gone  when 
the  game  warden  dropped  in  and  arrested  him  for 
havin'  venison  in  his  house.  All  such  tricks  was  worked 
on  him,  and  he  spent  every  cent  he  was  worth  fighting 
lawsuits.  People  wa'n't  allowed  to  fish  on  the  property, 
and  the  women  wa'n't  allowed  to  pick  berries  on  it.  A 
good  deal  of  hard  feeling  was  stirred  up,  and  Rockefeller 
would  scoot  from  the  train  to  his  house,  and  pull  the 
curtains  down,  'fraid  they'd  shoot  him.  Oh!  he  was 
awful  scairt." 

The  storekeeper  had  picked  up  a  bunch  of  keys  from 
his  desk  and  he  jingled  them  suggestively  and  was 
buttoning  up  his  coat.  It  was  evident  that  he  intended 
to  close  up,  and  the  conclave  got  off  the  boxes  and 
counters  and  straggled  out  of  the  door. 

One  day  I  walked  far  up  on  the  frostbound  Lake 
Placid.  There  were  three  roads  on  the  ice  running  along 
parallel  only  a  few  feet  apart.  The  central  road  was  a 
driveway,  and  the  other  two  were  merely  ploughed  out 
trails  to  catch  the  drifting  snow.  By  and  by  I  met  a 


22      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

load  of  logs,  and  the  driver  stopped  to  speak  with  me. 
He  had  started  out  from  the  village  at  six  o'clock  that 
morning,  driven  some  eight  miles  to  a  logging  camp  at 
the  far  end  of  the  lake,  and  now  was  returning.  On  his 
big,  broad  sled  were  twenty-five  logs,  thirteen  feet  long, 
making  a  load  that  weighed  about  six  tons.  It  seemed 
a  wonder  that  a  single  pair  of  horses  could  draw  it. 

I  had  gone  as  far  as  I  cared  to  go  up  the  wide  lonely 
expanse  of  the  lake,  and  the  teamster  invited  me  to  ride 
with  him  back  to  the  town.  So  I  clambered  up  beside 
him  on  the  ponderous  load.  As  we  went  along  the  ice 
snapped  and  cracked  beneath  us,  but  it  was  eighteen 
inches  thick  and  perfectly  safe.  Log  drawing  had 
begun  when  the  ice  was  half  that  thickness,  but  they 
did  not  venture  to  carry  as  heavy  loads.  Disasters 
occasionally  occur;  and  yet,  whether  it  is  the  load,  or 
the  horses,  or  both  that  break  through,  the  results  are 
seldom  serious.  The  previous  winter,  however,  two 
horses  had  drowned.  They  broke  through  thin  ice, 
and  though  dragged  out  again  and  again  the  ice  gave 
way  beneath  their  weight.  Curiously  enough,  the  ice 
is  safest  on  warm  days.  Then  it  is  elastic,  but  in  very 
cold  weather  it  is  brittle,  and  is  contracting  and  crack- 
ing. Sometimes  a  load  will  drive  onto  a  small  section 
surrounded  by  fresh  cracks,  and  down  it  goes.  Usually 
the  ice  is  burdened  with  so  much  snow  that  water  oozes 
up  through  the  cracks  and  makes  the  road  slushy  and 
rough. 

One  would  think  that  such  thick  ice  would  linger  a 


The  Adirondack  Winter  23 

long  time  in  the  spring,  but  the  teamster  affirmed  that 
when  they  got  a  warm  south  wind  the  ice  disappeared 
in  about  two  days.  He  said  it  sank  in  the  lake. 

There  were  hills  to  go  down  when  we  reached  the 
village,  and  I  got  off  on  the  verge  of  the  first  steep 
pitch.  The  driver  protested  that  there  was  no  danger, 
but  when  I  saw  the  big  load  go  swerving  down  the  icy 
incline  with  the  horses  pushed  into  a  trot  in  spite  of 
their  backward  bracing,  a  smashup  seemed  easily 
possible. 

On  the  day  that  I  left  the  mountains  it  was  snowing, 
and  the  storm-swept  open  country,  and  the  stumplands, 
and  the  fire-wrecked  woods  looked  dreary  enough. 
The  wind  blew,  and  the  falling  flakes  filled  the  air  with 
a  wild  flurry,  and  the  loose  new  snow  sifted  along  on 
the  hard  older  snow  in  a  drifting  smother.  It  was  "a 
rough  day  out,"  but  there  was  serenity  in  the  snow- 
adorned  forest  that  had  escaped  the  fires.  There  the 
woodland  aisles  were  delicately  atmospheric  and  more 
fairy-like  than  ever. 

NOTES. — The  Adirondacks  are  the  most  popular  summer  and 
hunting  resort  in  the  state.  They  stretch  from  near  Canada  almost 
to  the  Mohawk  River,  a  distance  of  120  miles;  and  from  Lake 
Champlain  about  80  miles  westerly.  The  loftiest  peak  is  Mt.  Marcy, 
which  attains  a  height  of  5,345  feet.  It  has  several  rivals  that  are 
not  much  lower.  Nearly  the  entire  mountain  region,  or  Adirondack 
Wilderness  as  it  is  called,  is  densely  covered  with  forest,  and  lumber- 
ing is  carried  on  extensively.  Great  quantities  of  spruce,  hemlock, 
and  other  timber  are  annually  floated  down  to  the  Hudson  and  the 
St.  Lawrence.  The  region  contains  more  than  1,000  lakes  varying 


24      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

in  size  from  a  few  acres  to  20  square  miles.  One  of  these,  "Tear  of 
the  Clouds,"  is  over  4,000  feet  above  the  sea  level,  and  is  the  source 
of  the  Hudson.  Among  the  wild  creatures  to  be  found  in  the  dis- 
trict are  catamounts,  bears,  deer,  otters,  badgers,  eagles,  and  loons. 
The  lakes  and  streams  are  well  stocked  with  trout.  Flies  and 
mosquitoes  are  troublesome  in  June  and  July. 

The  most  frequented  regions  are  those  of  Saranac  and  St.  Regis 
Lakes,  Lake  Placid,  and  Keene  Valley,  all  of  which  contain  numer- 
ous hotels  and  summer  camps.  The  hotels  are  generally  comforta- 
ble, and  some  are  luxurious.  Guides  and  canoes  can  be  secured  at 
all  the  chief  resorts. 

The  principal  gateways  to  the  mountains  are  Utica  and  Saratoga 
on  the  south,  Westport,  Port  Kent,  and  Plattsburg  on  the  east,  and 
Malone  on  the  north.  Much  of  the  region  is  accessible  to  automo- 
biles, and  it  has  become  a  favorite  touring  ground  for  motorists. 
The  roads  are  for  the  most  part  dirt,  and  some  of  them  are  very 
good,  but  others  are  rough  and  winding,  and  there  are  places  where 
sand  or  clay  are  encountered. 

The  region  east  of  the  Adirondacks  abounds  in  scenic  and  historic 
attraction,  and  a  most  attractive  trip  can  be  made  from  Saratoga  to 
Plattsburg,  127  miles.  There  is  a  good  dirt  or  macadam  road  nearly 
all  the  way.  Saratoga  itself  is  interesting  as  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  frequented  of  our  watering-places.  Among  the  popular  drives 
in  the  vicinity  is  that  to  the  top  of  Mt.  McGregor,  1,200  feet  high. 
The  distance  is  10  miles.  The  cottage  in  which  General  Grant  died 
in  1885  is  located  on  the  summit.  East  of  Saratoga,  12  miles,  near 
Schuylerville  was  fought,  in  October,  1777,  the  battle  which  resulted 
in  the  surrender  of  the  British  army  under  General  Burgoyne. 

An  island  in  the  Hudson  River  at  Glens  Falls,  19  miles  north  of 
Saratoga  is  the  scene  of  some  of  the  most  famous  incidents  in 
Cooper's  "  Last  of  the  Mohicans."  At  28  miles  on  this  route  is  Lake 
George.  Fort  William  Henry  once  stood  on  the  shore  here,  and 
there  was  much  fighting  in  the  region  during  the  French  and  Indian 
wars.  The  lake  is  33  miles  long  and  3  miles  wide.  Wooded  moun- 


The  Adirondack  Winter  25 

tains  flank  it  on  both  sides,  and  islands  to  the  number  of  220  dot  its 
surface.  The  road  follows  the  west  shore  of  the  lake,  and  presently 
reaches  the  borders  of  Lake  Champlain  near  old  Fort  Ticonderoga, 
recently  restored.  Farther  north  it  passes  the  ruined  fortifications 
at  Crown  Point.  Near  Keesville  on  this  route  is  the  Ausable  Chasm, 
where  the  Ausable  River  flows  through  a  rocky  gorge  100  to  175  feet 
deep  and  only  20  to  40  feet  wide.  This  is  considered  the  most  won- 
derful piece  of  Nature's  work  of  its  kind  east  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. Waterfalls  and  rapids  add  to  its  charm. 


II 


MIDSUMMER    IN    THE    CATSKILLS 

THE  Mountains  of  the  Sky,  as  the  Indians  called 
them,  or  the  Wildcat  Creek  Mountains,  as  they 
would  be  called  if  the  Dutch  word  Catskill  was 
translated  into  English,  include  one  height  with  an 
altitude  of  4,200  feet,  and  there  are  numerous  other 
heights  in  the  group  that  are  genuinely  impressive  in 
their  upward  soaring.  Yet  none  of  them  are  at  all 
savage,  and  the  region  has  a  certain  gentleness  of  aspect 
that  is  restful  and  charming.  The  mountains  them- 
selves, instead  of  rising  in  craggy  steeps,  nearly  always 
lift  their  shaggy,  wooded  shoulders  in  mild  undulations; 
and  in  the  tangle  of  valleys  you  rarely  fail  to  find  either 
an  occasional  village  or  scattered  farms. 

Nevertheless,  the  region  is  one  that  can  never  be 
wholly  tamed.  A  formal  monotony  of  straight  roads 
and  right-angled  corners,  and  fields  of  regular  size  and 
shape  is  forever  impossible.  The  roadways  almost  of 
necessity  adapt  themselves  to  the  lay  of  the  land,  and 
are  full  of  graceful  curves  and  piquant  surprises. 

Another  charm  of  this  Catskill  country  is  its  streams. 
Everywhere  you  go  you  hear  the  purl  of  brooks  in  their 
shadowed,  rocky  hollows,  and  not  infrequently  the 
melody  of  a  waterfall;  and  the  water  is  bright  and  pure, 


A  summer  afternoon 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  27 

and  continues  as  of  yore  to  be  the  lurking-place  of  the 
speckled  trout. 

The  section  that  has  most  appealed  to  me  is  not 
where  the  mountains  soar  highest,  but  more  westerly 
where  the  country  becomes  distinctly  pastoral  and  the 
farms  creep  far  up  the  great  billowy  hills.  Sometimes 
the  cleared  land  sweeps  right  over  the  giant  summits, 
but  oftener  the  highest  portion  of  the  hill  has  a  green 
cap  of  woodland.  It  is  a  pretty  sight  as  you  look  from 
one  hill  across  to  others  and  see  the  tilled  fields  forming 
a  sort  of  patchwork  quilt  of  varying  shapes  and  tints. 
The  seams  of  the  quilt  are  sturdy  stone  walls  erected 
at  an  infinite  expense  of  time  and  labor  in  gathering 
the  stones  from  the  land  and  piling  them  into  barriers, 
and  then  year  after  year  keeping  these  barriers  in  re- 
pair; for  even  the  stoutest  stone  wall  is  not  permanent. 
The  frosts  gradually,  but  surely,  heave  it  into  complete 
ruin  if  it  is  neglected. 

One  of  my  stopping-places  was  a  sleepy  little  village 
around  which  the  big  hills  rose  on  every  side.  At  the 
close  of  a  warm  August  day  I  sat  after  supper  on 
the  piazza  of  the  rustic  hotel  with  the  landlord  and 
his  wife.  Some  of  the  neighbors  who  had  been  off 
berrying  were  plodding  homeward  on  the  adjacent 
walk,  and  the  landlady  asked  them  what  luck  they 
had  had. 

"There  ain't  as  many  berries  as  usual,"  one  of  the 
pickers  responded,  "and  everybody  is  after  'em.  Why, 
up  on  Cold  Hill,  where  we  went,  there  was  seven  people 


28      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

to  one  huckleberry;  and,  by  gracious!  it's  a  long  walk 
there  and  back,  I  tell  yer." 

"But  you've  got  your  pails  full,"  the  landlady  com- 
mented. 

"Oh,  we  got  our  share,  don't  cher  know,"  the  picker 
said,  "and  now  we  must  hurry  along  so  as  to  have  time 
tonight  to  look  'em  over.  That's  quite  a  job." 

Meanwhile  the  landlord  was  talking  with  a  small 
boy  of  the  party.  Their  bantering  conversation  came 
to  an  end  with  the  landlord's  saying:  "Want  to  fight? 
But  what's  the  use?  You  could  n't  lick  a  postage 
stamp." 

The  next  morning  I  went  for  a  long  walk  and  followed 
a  winding  highway  that  for  mile  after  mile  climbed  a 
seemingly  endless  hill.  It  was  a  rather  attractive  road 
with  little  farms  scattered  along,  and  wooded  heights 
rising  on  either  side,  and  at  last  it  brought  me  to  where 
the  land  dipped  into  another  valley,  and  I  began  to 
descend.  The  day  was  warm  and  pleasant,  and  mowing- 
machines  were  busy,  and  men  with  scythes  were  laying 
low  the  grass  around  the  borders  of  the  fields  and  on 
the  slopes  that  were  too  steep  for  a  machine.  I  was  in 
no  haste  and  occasionally  stopped  to  chat  with  the 
roadside  workers,  or  with  persons  I  met  on  the  highway. 
One  of  the  latter  was  an  old  man  who  was  hobbling 
along  aided  by  a  cane  and  pausing  often  in  his  slow 
progress  to  catch  his  breath. 

"I  was  eighty-three  my  last  birthday,"  he  said,  "and 
I  ain't  good  for  nawthin'  any  more.  That  house  you 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  29 

see  down  the  road  used  to  be  my  home,  but  I  don't  live 
up  here  in  the  mountains  now.  My  son  has  the  old 
place,  and  I'm  just  visiting  him  this  summer.  I 
would  n't  care  to  stay  the  year  through.  It's  cold  here 
in  winter — darnation  cold,  and  the  roads  are  blocked 
with  snowdrifts. 

"This  used  to  be  a  great  country  for  game.  We  had 
wild  pigeons  by  the  million.  There  was  such  flocks 
that  they  darkened  the  sky.  They  built  their  nests  on 
the  mountains  along  the  highest  ridges.  Every  tree, 
almost,  would  have  nests  in  it.  The  nests  was  usually 
made  out  of  coarse  sticks,  but  I  remember  a  season 
when  the  pigeons  carried  away  most  of  a  haystack  I 
had  and  used  it  for  nest-building.  As  a  common  thing 
they'd  fly  away  every  morning  to  their  feeding-places 
at  a  distance,  and  come  flying  back  at  night,  but  once 
they  got  here  before  the  snow  was  gone,  and  then  I 
saw  'em  scratching  for  food  wherever  there  was  a  bare 
spot. 

"They  never  stayed  here  all  summer,  but  went  off 
when  the  young  ones  could  fly,  and  returned  when  the 
buckwheat  was  ripening.  We  had  to  guard  our  fields 
or  they'd  have  taken  every  kernel  of  the  grain. 

"We  used  to  snare  'em.  We'd  scatter  buckwheat  on 
some  level  place,  and  up  above  on  a  perch  we'd  have  a 
captive  pigeon  with  its  eyes  covered.  When  a  flock 
was  flying  over  we'd  pull  away  the  perch,  and  the  bird 
would  flutter  to  the  ground  as  if  it  was  going  after  the 
feed.  That  attracted  the  other  pigeons  to  the  spot. 


30      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

We  had  a  net  ready  attached  to  a  pole,  and  by  pulling 
a  string  could  make  it  flop  over  the  birds  when  enough 
had  lit,  and  then  we  had  'em. 

"Once  I  was  out  layin'  behind  a  wall  watchin'  for 
pigeons,  and  they  come  and  lit  in  an  old  dead  cherry 
tree  just  as  thick  as  they  could  stick — hundreds  on  that 
one  tree.  I  killed  thirteen  of  'em  at  a  single  shot. 

"They  was  mighty  nice  eating,  and  there  was  more 
meat  on  'em  than  you'd  naturally  expect,  for  they 
did  n't  look  as  large  as  their  bodies  really  were.  That 
was  because  their  feathers  lay  so  snug;  but  when  a 
bird  was  picked  it  was  near  as  big  as  a  dove. 

"Lots  of  men  went  to  the  mountains  after  squabs  in 
the  spring,  and  when  the  old  birds  at  the  nesting-place 
were  disturbed  they'd  fly  up  in  such  numbers  their 
wings  made  a  sound  like  thunder.  The  men  would 
climb  the  trees  after  the  squabs,  or  they'd  cut  the  trees 
down.  Sometimes  they'd  cut  off  acres  and  acres.  The 
squabs  were  shipped  to  the  cities,  and  I've  known  men 
to  get  a  two  hundred  dollar  check  for  a  single  shipment. 

"There  were  great  numbers  of  pigeons  until  about 
1875.  Then  they  suddenly  disappeared.  It  is  said  that 
they  all  perished  in  a  great  storm  at  sea  while  migrat- 
ing, and  that  vast  quantities  of  their  bodies  washed  up 
on  the  shores." 

Toward  night  I  engaged  lodging  at  a  farmhouse  that 
was  well  up  on  one  of  the  vast  slopes  overlooking  an 
impressive  succession  of  vales  and  hills.  There  I 
stayed  several  days.  The  farm  made  a  specialty  of 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  31 

dairying,  and  every  morning  Jim  and  Ned,  the  young 
men  of  the  household,  together  with  Mrs.  Ned  and  the 
hired  man,  were  up  early  enough  to  milk  the  fifty  cows 
by  six  o'clock.  Then  the  cows  went  in  a  straggling  line 
over  the  hill  to  the  pasture,  and  the  milkers  came  in  to 
breakfast.  One  feature  of  the  morning  bill  of  fare  was 
buckwheat  cakes.  The  family  had  them  for  breakfast 
the  year  around,  and  ate  them  with  pork  fat,  butter, 
or  maple  sugar. 

During  the  day  the  men  and  boys  were  busy  haying, 
but  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  two  of  the 
youngsters  and  their  dog  went  to  the  brushy  pasture 
after  the  cows.  At  the  boys'  bidding  the  dog  ran  about 
over  the  hills  and  through  the  clumps  of  trees  and 
bushes  gathering  the  scattered  herd  and  barking 
at  the  lingerers  until  he  brought  them  to  the  bars. 
There  the  boys  counted  them  as  they  passed  through 
and  made  sure  they  had  them  all. 

The  supper  hour  was  five,  and  the  milking  immedi- 
ately followed.  Women  help  with  the  milking  on 
nearly  all  the  farms.  "  But  they  don't  like  it  very  well," 
Ned  observed,  "and  they  feel  abused  unless  the  men 
do  the  bulk  of  it." 

"Well,"  Jim  said,  "I  think  the  farmers  would  be 
better  off  if  they'd  lighten  the  job  of  milking  by  keeping 
fewer  cows.  As  it  is  they  pay  out  most  of  the  money 
they  get  for  their  milk  to  buy  feed.  But  I  must  say 
they're  generally  prosperous.  You  take  our  next 
neighbor  down  the  road,  for  instance.  About  a  dozen 


32      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

years  ago  he  bought  that  place  for  six  thousand  dollars. 
He's  got  it  all  paid  for,  and  he  could  sell  it  for  twice 
that  now.  The  family  that  owned  it  before  he  did  all 
had  the  typhoid  but  one,  and  there  were  nine  of  'em. 
Seven  died,  and  most  everybody  was  afraid  to  live  on 
the  place.  But  this  man  was  n't,  and  he  got  it  cheap. 
He  went  there  with  his  wife  and  children,  and  not  one 
of  'em  has  had  a  sick  day  since." 

I  came  across  this  neighbor  one  day  as  he  was  plough- 
ing. The  ground  was  surprisingly  stony.  Indeed,  the 
soil  of  all  the  fields,  outside  of  the  alluvial  deposits  in 
the  valleys,  was  like  a  vast  plum-pudding  in  which 
there  was  about  an  equal  proportion  of  stones  and 
earth.  The  plough  was  continually  scraping  the  stones 
or  being  jerked  this  way  and  that  by  them.  Some  of 
the  biggest  that  were  brought  up  to  the  surface  would 
later  be  dragged  off,  but  it  was  not  the  custom  to  trouble 
with  any  of  less  size  than  a  man's  hat. 

"It's  so  stony  we  don't  plough  any  oftener  than  we 
can  help,"  the  farmer  said.  "I'm  turning  this  sod 
under  on  account  of  the  hawkweed.  There's  a  snag 
of  it  on  this  lot.  I  guess  it'll  soon  get  all  over  the  world 
if  it  keeps  spreadin'  the  way  it  has  here.  It'll  grow  on 
any  land  that  ain't  boggy.  Where  a  spring  dreans  it 
won't  do  nothin',  but  back  on  the  hills  where  the  ground 
is  perfectly  dry  it  flourishes;  and  the  dryer  the  weather 
the  better  it  does.  By  cultivating  a  crop  we  can  kill  it 
out,  but  if  we  seed  the  land  down,  it  gradually  comes 
back.  Yes,  you  got  to  fight  it  all  the  while,  my  friend. 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  33 

The  leaves  and  the  blossom-stems  are  covered  with  a 
kind  of  fuzz,  and  when  you  are  haying  that  there  dry 
fuzz  flies  in  the  air  and  raises  the  dickens  with  you.  It 
gets  in  your  nose  and  throat,  and  it  tickles  and  makes 
you  sneeze.  You  might  as  well  work  in  cayenne  pepper. 
It  makes  your  eyes  smart,  too.  Some  can't  handle  the 
hay  in  the  barn  at  all  on  account  of  the  hawkweed  dust. 
It  knocks  'em  out.  Even  in  winter  it'll  bother  you  some 
when  you're  getting  hay  from  the  mow  to  feed  the  stock. 
But  hawkweed  makes  good  pasturage.  We  turn  in  the 
cattle  in  the  spring  and  they  keep  it  browsed  down.  If 
they  did  n't  it  would  mat  right  over  everything." 

The  pest  did  not  become  troublesome  until  about 
twenty  years  ago.  It  has  a  gay  blossom  that  is  quite 
attractive,  and  no  doubt  it  escaped  to  the  fields  from 
some  woman's  posie  pot. 

Another  foe  that  the  farmer  has  to  fight  is  the  wood- 
chuck.  The  creatures  have  their  burrows  along  the 
roadsides  and  in  the  fields  everywhere.  They  eat  a 
great  deal  of  grass,  and  destroy  the  vegetables  in  the 
gardens,  and  make  inroads  on  various  of  the  field  crops 
if  they  are  not  strenuously  opposed.  "I  tell  you,"  Jim 
said,  "they're  an  awful  mean  thing,  tromping  down 
the  mowing;  and  they  make  holes,  and  heave  up  heaps 
of  dirt  that  are  a  great  nuisance  in  your  fields.  There's 
millions  of  'em  this  year — more'n  I've  ever  seen  before." 

His  assertion  as  to  their  numbers  seemed  rather 
sweeping;  but  they  were  certainly  exceedingly  plenti- 
ful. If  I  went  for  a  walk,  when  they  were  out  feeding 


34      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

toward  evening,  I  had  the  brown,  furry  creatures  con- 
stantly in  view,  sometimes  low  in  the  grass,  sometimes 
with  heads  poked  up  watching  me,  but  oftenest  scurry- 
ing to  the  shelter  of  their  holes. 

Saturday  evening  the  young  people  of  the  family 
drove  to  the  village.  It  is  the  common  habit  of  all  the 
country  round  to  resort  thither  on  the  final  afternoon 
or  evening  of  the  week.  They  go  partly  to  trade,  partly 
for  sociability.  That  is  the  merchants'  harvest  time, 
and  the  stores  are  open  and  the  clerks  busy  till  about 
midnight.  A  good  many  of  the  men  drift  to  the  hotels 
to  drink,  and  this  fag  end  of  the  week  is  the  only  time, 
except  rainy  days,  when  a  man  is  likely  to  be  seen 
staggering  on  the  street.  The  haying  hands  are  usually 
the  worst  drinkers,  and  on  a  rainy  day  they  are  apt  to 
want  their  pay  that  they  may  spend  it  at  some  hotel 
bar.  Nor  are  they  satisfied  to  stop  drinking  and  return 
to  work  until  their  money  is  gone. 

One  of  the  midsummer  attractions  of  Saturday  night 
at  the  village  is  a  dance,  and  people  come  to  it  from 
seven  or  eight  miles  around.  About  half  the  dancers 
are  city  vacation  visitors,  but  they  mix  in  a  very 
friendly  way  with  the  country  folk,  and  harmony  and 
a  lively  enjoyment  of  the  occasion  are  general. 

"We're  supposed  to  quit  at  twelve  o'clock,"  Ned 
said  to  me,  "but  if  we  get  a  set  on  just  before  that  hour 
we  dance  it  out.  Most  of  us  stay  till  the  last  minute. 
Here's  Emmy,  for  instance,"  and  he  indicated  his  wife 
— "she'd  rather  dance  than  eat.  There's  always  a  good 


Coming  from  the  hay  field 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  35 

crowd,  and  the  hall  is  full.  The  women  dance  free,  but 
a  man  has  to  pay  ten  cents  for  each  set  he  dances.  Some 
dance  every  set,  others  only  one  or  two,  but  I  guess 
they'd  average  five." 

A  misty  rain  was  falling  when  Sunday  dawned,  and 
after  breakfast  the  men  sat  in  the  kitchen  and  smoked, 
or  lay  down  on  the  sofas  to  doze.  Presently  Sam,  the 
hired  man,  pulled  out  his  watch  and  remarked  that  it 
was  just  seven  minutes  past  eight.  Ned  commented 
that  Sam  only  had  luck  to  thank  if  he  had  hit  the  cor- 
rect time  within  half  an  hour. 

"I  bet  a  dollar  that  my  watch  is  right,"  Sam  retorted. 

"I'll  take  your  bet,"  Ned  said. 

"I  set  that  watch  by  the  town  clock  yesterday," 
Sam  explained. 

"Oh!"  said  Ned,  "you  might  as  well  look  at  the  heel 
of  your  shoe  as  at  your  watch  or  the  town  clock  either 
to  get  the  true  time.  That  clock  hain't  been  right  sin' 
I  can  remember." 

In  the  afternoon  the  sky  brightened  and  the  sun 
shone  forth  on  the  wet  earth.  When  the  roads  and 
grass  were  dried  somewhat  two  of  the  men  went  in 
search  of  raspberries  along  the  stone  walls,  intending 
to  get  a  mess  for  supper,  and  Jim  took  his  gun  and  spent 
a  leisurely  hour  or  two  exterminating  woodchucks. 

"I'd  rather  have  gone  fishing,"  he  said,  as  he  entered 
the  house  later.  "Yes,  fishing  would  have  suited  me 
better  than  gunning,  if  I  had  n't  broke  my  pole  the 
last  time  I  went.  I'd  landed  one  nice  big  trout  that 


36      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

weighed  a  pound  and  a  half,  but  that  one  I  lost,  when 
the  pole  went  back  on  me,  was  twice  as  big.  By  gol! 
it  makes  me  cry  to  lose  so  many  of  them  big  trout." 

The  last  thing  before  bedtime  Jim  sat  down  by  the 
stove  with  a  stick  in  one  hand  and  his  jackknife  in  the 
other  and  began  to  whittle  kindlings  to  start  the  morn- 
ing fire.  "I  do  this  every  night,"  he  said,  "unless  I 
forgit  it.  In  that  case  I  have  to  whittle  the  kindlings 
in  the  morning.  This  stick  is  hemlock.  I  like  pine 
better,  because  it's  easier  to  whittle,  but  one'll  burn 
about  as  good  as  the  other.  I  wish  I  had  the  big  pine 
on  the  road  to  the  village  that  the  wind  blowed  over 
this  spring.  We  had  a  storm  then  that  was  a  storm.  I 
was  settin'  by  the  window  lookin'  up  toward  the  sap 
bush  when  it  started,  and  I  see  the  big  maples  bend  over 
nearly  to  the  ground.  Some  were  Uprooted,  but  most 
of  'em  would  spring  back.  The  clouds  were  so  black 
I  thought  we  was  goin'  to  have  an  awful  shower,  but 
it  only  rained  a  little  spat. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  he  shut  up  his  knife,  "I'd  be 
saved  considerable  work  whittling  if  we  burned  coal. 
Quite  a  good  many  families  burn  it  in  winter  in  the 
settin'  room,  but  the  price  is  so  cussed  high  they  don't 
use  any  more  than  they  can  help." 

One  of  my  walks  in  the  neighborhood  was  on  what 
was  known  as  the  Hardscrabble  Road.  The  portion  of 
it,  however,  that  I  traversed  was  simply  a  pleasant, 
meandering  country  byway.  Where  it  separated  from 
the  main  road  was  a  small,  whitewashed  stone  building 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  37 

with  the  date  1813  cut  into  one  of  the  stones,  and  I 
inquired  the  significance  of  this  date  from  some  people 
who  were  sitting  on  the  piazza  of  a  house  near  by.  They 
seemed  sociably  inclined,  and  I  entered  the  gate  and 
joined  them.  The  group  included  a  middle-aged  woman 
and  her  mother,  and  another  gray-haired,  elderly 
woman,  whom  her  companions  call  Aunt  Jane.  On  the 
grass  in  front  of  the  piazza  sat  a  little  girl  playing  with 
a  kitten.  Two  of  the  women  were  sewing,  but  Aunt 
Jane  was  a  visitor  and  lived  in  the  building  with  a  date 
on  it. 

"That  date  shows  when  it  was  built,"  she  said.  "It 
was  a  schoolhouse  at  first,  and  the  schoolmaster  lived 
in  this  house  here.  The  children  come  from  four  or 
five  miles  around — yes,  even  from  way  over  in  Meeker 
Holler.  It  was  such  a  back  country  then,  and  the 
roads  were  so  poor  that  a  good  many  come  on  horse- 
back. They  kept  their  horses  in  the  schoolmaster's 
barn. 

"Later  other  schoolhouses  was  built  more  convenient, 
and  this  one  was  dropped.  Not  long  ago  I  happened 
to  be  out  in  the  yard  when  a  man  who  was  drivin'  along 
the  road  stopped  and  spoke  to  me,  and  he  says,  'I'm 
goin'  to  be  bold  enough  to  tell  you  that  I  went  to  school 
in  that  building.' 

"Then  he  said  he  wished  he  could  live  in  this  region, 
and  asked  if  I  knew  of  any  places  for  sale.  I  told  him 
I  did  n't,  and  he  looked  around  and  said,  'Well,  you've 
got  God's  own  country  here.' 


38      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"They  say  that  all  the  stones  in  the  walls  of  our  house 
was  took  off  from  that  one  acre  yonder  that  the  building 
stands  on,  but  there  were  so  many  left  that  we  had  to 
work  awful  hard  to  get  the  land  cleared  so  we  could 
raise  anything  on  it. 

"When  they  quit  keepin'  school  in  the  buildin'  it  was 
fixed  up  for  a  church,  and  there  was  a  pulpit  made  at 
one  end  of  the  old  schoolroom,  but  for  the  last  thirty 
or  forty  years  it's  been  a  house.  Several  families  had 
lived  into  it  before  we  got  it,  and  it  was  all  run  down  and 
was  a  horrid-lookin'  thing.  The  lower  part  had  been 
divided  into  rooms,  but  there  wa'n't  a  yard  of  paper  on 
the  walls,  and  there  wa'n't  no  chamber  floor  upstairs. 
The  downstairs  floor  is  still  in  there  with  its  wide,  old- 
fashioned  boards,  the  same  that  was  put  in  when  the 
house  was  built;  and  there's  the  same  padlock  on  the 
door  that  was  on  it  when  we  moved  in. 

"It's  quite  a  comfortable  house  for  a  small  family. 
The  only  fault  I  got  to  find  with  it  is  that  we  don't  have 
anything  better  than  crick  water  on  the  place.  That's 
the  reason  I'm  over  here  now.  I  came  to  get  a  pail  of 
spring  water  and  a  little  buttermilk." 

"Well,"  grandma  said,  "that  house  of  yours  certain 
was  a  snug  little  church  when  I  was  young.  I've  went 
there  to  meetin'  many  a  Sunday." 

Just  then  a  young  turkey  boldly  joined  the  group  on 
the  piazza.  "Now  you  go  back,"  the  housewife  said. 
"Your  company's  not  wanted." 

"One  of  them  young  turkeys  picks  its  own  ma,"  the 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  39 

little  girl  observed.  "It  picked  its  ma  under  the 
throat." 

"We've  had  very  good  luck  raisin'  turkeys  late 
years,"  the  housewife  said.  "I  s'pose  we've  got  forty 
at  present,  and  we've  lost  hardly  any  since  they  begun 
hatching  in  the  spring.  But  Mrs.  Brock  says  hers  are 
dyin'  off  to  beat  all.  There!  I  seen  one  fly  up  from 
among  the  cabbages  down  in  the  garden.  Ruth,  go 
and  drive  'em  out." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  Ruth  responded.  "It's  too 
far." 

"You'll  walk  farther'n  that  if  your  mama  starts  after 
you,"  the  mother  declared.  "Besides,  if  you  leave  the 
turkeys  in  there  they'll  eat  the  cabbages  all  up  and 
then  you  won't  have  none  to  eat  yourself.  They  do 
like  those  cabbages,  and  they've  got  some  of  'em  just 
skinned." 

The  little  girl  rose  reluctantly  and  went  to  chase  the 
turkeys.  A  team  was  approaching  on  the  road.  "Ain't 
that  Raskins  ag'in?"  Grandma  said. 

"Don't  look  like  his  team  to  me,"  Aunt  Jane  com- 
mented. 

"I  think  'tis  yet,"  Grandma  said.  "Yes,  that's 
Raskins  drivin'.  Must  be  he's  got  boarders  and  is 
givin'  'em  a  ride." 

"There's  another  team  comin'  up  the  hill,"  the 
housewife  remarked. 

"That's  Henry  Bligh  and  his  adopted  daughter,"  Aunt 
Jane  announced  after  observing  them  a  few  moments. 


40      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"Henry  married  Nora  Dean,  you  remember.    Her  and 
I  was  close  friends." 

"Where  does  he  live?"  Grandma  inquired.  And 
they  went  on  discussing  him  and  his  family  and  his 
abode  in  detail.  It  was  the  same  with  every  vehicle 
that  passed — they  always  interrupted  whatever  con- 
versation they  were  engaged  in  to  comment  on  the 
occupants. 

I  wanted  to  hear  more  about  the  church,  and  in 
response  to  my  questions  Aunt  Jane  said:  "They 
did  n't  have  meetin's  there  regularly,  but  every  once 
in  a  while  word  would  be  given  out  that  there  was  to  be 
a  meetin'  in  the  Hardscrabble  schoolhouse.  I  lived  in 
the  village  then,  and  I  used  to  see  the  people  on  a  Sun- 
day go  stringin'  along  up  the  street,  and  if  I  had  n't 
heard  of  any  notice  I'd  wonder  where  they  was  goin'. 
You  know  they  do  go  a  good  deal  up  to  the  burying- 
ground  Sundays  to  look  around.  But  when  I'd  see  the 
whole  lot  comin'  back  after  two  or  three  hours  I'd 
understand  they'd  been  to  Hardscrabble.  It  was  Old 
School  Baptist  meetin's  they  had  here,  and  the  sermons 
was  so  long  indeed  that  Doc.  Atkins,  who  was  our 
village  dentist  then,  said  he'd  get  tired  sometimes  and 
would  go  out  and  lay  on  the  grass  and  eat  caraway." 

"Land!  it  was  just  like  Doc.  Atkins  to  do  that  way," 

Grandma  observed.     "He's  moved  out  of  town  now." 

"He  must  be  gettin'  toward  eighty,"  the  housewife 

mused.     "He's  been  an  old  man  a  long  time.     Doc. 

was  a  good  dentist  in  his  day.     Folks  all  said  he  made 


fflfG8®te,-&*;.: 

L  Vi.  «.?     V   *-.V*    '          Tf  .-.*     ^.ttuL         .-*.-.-. 


Ploughing  one  of  the  stony  fields 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  41 

grand  false  teeth.  But  he  never  looked  neat  enough  to 
suit  me.  I  remember  tellin'  some  one  in  the  post  office 
one  day  that  I  did  n't  want  his  fingers  round  my  face; 
and  I  turned,  and  there  he  was  right  behind  me.  But 
he  just  haw-hawed  and  took  it  in  good  part." 

"He  made  my  teeth,"  Grandma  said,  "and  I've  had 
'em  forty-six  years." 

"Oh,  Doc.  could  make  teeth  all  right,"  the  house- 
wife agreed.  "Yes,  sir,  he  could.  He  made  some  for 
George — that's  my  husband.  One  day  George  was 
bringin'  home  a  load  of  hay,  and  he  was  drivin'  along 
a  side  road  with  the  hired  man  follerin'  behind  when  the 
horses  took  fright  at  some  boarders  who'd  climbed  up 
in  a  tree.  The  horses  shied,  and  load  and  all  went 
tumbling  down  a  kind  of  dugway  eighty  or  ninety  feet. 
They  turned  a  complete  summersault,  and  the  load  of 
hay  landed  on  George  bottom  side  up.  The  hired  man 
thought  George  was  killed,  but  when  he  got  down  there 
he  heard  him  sayin'  he  was  smotherin',  and  he  dug  a 
hole  in  the  hay  as  quick  as  he  could  to  give  him  air." 

"I  s'pose  them  boarders  helped,"  Aunt  Jane  re- 
marked. 

"No,  no,  help  nothin'!"  the  wife  exclaimed.  "The 
hired  man  got  him  out  alone.  For  a  wonder  George 
did  n't  have  any  bones  broken,  but  he  was  bruised  up 
like  the  mischief,  and  his  teeth  was  smashed  all  to 
pieces.  So  he  had  Doc.  Atkins  make  him  a  set  of  false 
ones." 

Grandma's  thoughts  now  turned  back  to  the  subject 


42      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

we  had  been  discussing  previously.  "There's  still  a 
Hardshell  Baptist  Church  in  the  village,"  she  said, 
"but  they  seldom  have  services  nowadays.  Once  in  a 
while,  though,  Dominie  Lawson  comes  from  down  the 
valley  and  preaches.  They  say  he's  smart,  and  I've 
always  been  anxious  to  hear  him,  but  it  ain't  been  con- 
venient. Did  you  know  that  they  never  have  no  musical 
instruments  in  the  Hardshell  churches?" 

"David  Buxton  who  died  last  spring  was  a  good 
Baptist,"  Aunt  Jane  said.  "He'd  been  sick  a  long  time, 
and  toward  the  end  he  was  nothin'  in  the  world  but  a 
skeleton.  For  quite  a  while  before  he  died  he  was  so 
afraid  he'd  say  or  do  something  wrong  that  he  did  n't 
dare  read  anything  but  his  religious  paper,  Signs  of  the 
Times.  He's  taken  that  paper  ever  since  he  was  a  young 
man.  It's  full  of  sermons  and  old-fashioned  religious 
experiences,  and  most  people  would  find  it  dull,  but  it 
was  a  great  comfort  to  David.  I  went  to  his  funeral, 
and  Dominie  Lawson  preached  the  funeral  sermon.  It 
must  have  been  an  hour  long.  There  was  no  direct 
application  to  the  occasion,  but  it  was  some  predestina- 
tion stuff  that  rambled  round  and  round  gettin'  no- 
where, I  thought.  The  pall  bearers  sat  there  and  slept, 
but  I  kept  wide  awake  to  see  what  the  sermon  was 
goin'  to  amount  to.  The  words,  'He  knows  my  sheep,  he 
knows  my  voice,'  come  into  it  pretty  often,  and  every  time 
the  dominie  repeated  'em  he  looked  right  over  at  me." 

"He  knew  you  was  a  lost  sinner,  Aunt  Jane,"  the 
housewife  remarked. 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  43 

"Way  back  when  David  Buxton's  father  was  alive," 
Grandma  said,  "the  Hardshell  church  used  to  be 
crowded,  and  at  the  time  of  the  yearly  meetin'  people 
would  come  from  all  around  and  have  family  picnics 
and  stay  three  or  four  days.  There'd  be  singin'  and 
sermons  then  from  morning  till  along  late  in  the  after- 
noon when  folks  had  to  go  home  to  do  the  chores.  At 
night  every  Baptist  hereabouts  had  his  house  full  of 
visitors.  Oh,  they  had  great  times!  Listening  to  the 
sermons  all  day  put  me  in  a  fidget,  but  those  old-time 
Baptists  would  have  sat  there  a  month,  I  guess,  and 
enjoyed  it." 

"I  was  at  the  Baptist  Church  once  on  a  communion 
Sunday,"  Aunt  Jane  said,  "but  they  did  n't  pass  me 
the  bread  and  the  wine." 

"They  would,"  Grandma  said,  "if  only  you'd  been 
baptized  by  bein'  immersed  in  a  brook  or  bathtub  or 
something.  They  used  to  have  their  batizin's  in  the 
crick.  Do  you  recollect  when  they  baptized  Curtis 
Taylor?  They'd  just  dipped  him  when  Doc.  Atkins 
called  out,  'That's  right — chuck  him  in  ag'in.'  I  was 
there,  and  I  heard  him.  He  meant  that  considerable 
reformin'  was  necessary  in  Curt's  case;  and  he  didn't 
make  any  mistake  about  it  either.  Curt  is  quite  a 
drinkin'  feller,  and  he  don't  go  to  church  nowhere 
now." 

"That  same  day  Jennie  Todd  was  baptized,"  the 
housewife  observed,  "and  if  I'd  had  anything  to  do 
about  it  they'd  'a'  left  her  in  till  this  time." 


44      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"The  last  batizin'  I  went  to,"  Aunt  Jane  said,  "was 
in  winter.  They  cut  a  hole  in  the  ice,  commencin'  at 
the  bank  and  makin'  a  channel  perhaps  fifteen  feet  long 
out  to  the  middle  of  the  stream.  There  was  snow  on 
the  ground,  and  it  was  an  awful  cold  day,  but  considera- 
ble of  a  crowd  come  to  look  on.  Just  one  young  woman 
was  baptized.  The  dominie  walked  out  in  the  water 
with  her  and  soused  her  right  down  under  out  of  sight. 
Then  they  went  to  the  nearest  house  to  change. their 
duds.  It's  claimed  that  a  person  who's  baptized  in 
winter  is  miraculously  protected  from  feelin'  the  cold, 
but  I  noticed  that  the  girl  wanted  to  get  in  the  house  as 
quick  as  she  could,  and  the  dominie  was  in  about  as  big 
a  hurry.  Their  clothes  froze  on  'em,  and  it's  my  opinion 
that  if  she'd  known  as  much  before  as  she  did  after- 
wards she'd  have  waited  till  warm  weather." 

Aunt  Jane  now  declared  that  she  must  go  home,  and  a 
few  minutes  later  she  walked  out  of  the  yard  carrying 
a  pail  full  of  spring  water  and  a  lesser  receptacle  full  of 
buttermilk.  About  this  time  the  farmer  came  to  the 
piazza  and  announced  that  he  had  finished  building  a 
chicken  house,  but  had  neglected  to  provide  it  with  any 
way  to  get  in  or  out.  So  the  housewife  had  to  go  with 
him  to  consider  the  problem,  and  I  resumed  my 
rambling. 

NOTES. — The  Catskills  are  attractive  in  their  legendary  lore, 
their  picturesque  scenery,  their  cool  and  healthful  atmosphere,  and 
their  accessibility.  Good  hotels  and  boarding-places  are  found 
scattered  all  over  the  region,  both  on  the  heights  and  in  the  valleys, 


Midsummer  in  the  Catskills  45 

and  it  is  not  difficult  to  satisfy  one's  wishes  in  the  matter  of  expense 
as  well  as  in  surroundings. 

The  chief  gateways  to  this  outlying  group  of  the  Appalachian 
system  are  Kingston  and  Catskill,  both  situated  on  the  west  bank 
of  the  Hudson.  The  mountains  themselves  begin  to  rise  only  a  few 
miles  from  the  river.  A  narrow-gauge  railroad  connects  Catskill 
with  the  base  of  Catskill  Mountain.  You  can  make  a  quick  ascent  to 
the  top  of  the  mountain  by  an  elevating  railroad,  but  a  more  inter- 
esting way  to  go  up  is  by  a  winding  wagon  road  through  the  woods. 
Half  way  to  the  summit  on  this  road  is  the  scene  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's 
famous  20  years'  sleep.  Catskill  Mountain  has  many  wild  cliffs, 
and  on  its  eastern  side  is  almost  a  sheer  precipice.  The  view  from 
its  upper  ledges  over  the  plains  between  it  and  the  Hudson  is  of 
unique  beauty.  Ten  miles  off,  the  river  itself  can  be  glimpsed,  and 
on  the  far  horizon  are  the  blue  ranges  of  the  Berkshire  Hills.  The 
vicinity  of  the  mountain  abounds  in  pleasant  walks  and  drives. 
Perhaps  the  most  delightful  of  these  excursions  is  the  one  through 
the  narrow  wooded  ravine  known  as  Kaaterskill  Clove,  with  its 
limpid  creek  and  dainty  waterfalls. 

Persons  having  an  ambition  to  scale  Slide  Mountain,  the  loftiest 
of  the  Catskill  heights,  can  do  so  most  readily  by  journeying  on  the 
railway  that  crosses  the  mountains  from  Kingston,  and  leaving  the 
train  at  Big  Indian.  It  is  1 1  miles  from  there  to  the  summit. 

West  of  Kingston,  16  miles,  the  Ashokan  Reservoir  is  nearing 
completion.  This  is  to  be  a  chief  source  of  water-supply  for  New 
York  City,  86  miles  distant.  The  water  will  flow  through  a  concrete 
acqueduct,  17  feet  in  diameter,  which  will  pass  under  the  Hudson  at 
Storm  King.  The  reservoir  will  convert  a  portion  of  the  fair  Esopus 
valley  into  a  lake,  12  miles  long  and  from  I  to  3  miles  broad.  About 
64  miles  of  highway  must  be  discontinued,  7  villages  abandoned, 
and  the  bodies  moved  from  32  cemeteries.  The  main  dam  rests  on 
a  foundation  sunk  200  feet  below  the  level  of  Esopus  Creek  and  the 
dam  rises  200  feet  above  the  creek.  A  macadam  boulevard  is  to 
encircle  the  lake.  It  will  be  lined  with  shade  trees,  and  lighted  by 


46      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

electricity  at  night.  The  total  cost  of  the  undertaking  will  be 
£250,000,000. 

Automobile  routes  go  westward  into  the  Catskills  from  Kingston, 
Saugerties,  and  Catskill.  Good  dirt  roads  are  the  rule,  but  they  are 
often  narrow,  winding,  and  steep. 

In  literature  the  individuality  of  the  mountains  is  best  set  forth 
in  the  writings  of  John  Burroughs,  who  was  born  at  Roxbury  in  the 
westerly  portion.  Roxbury  was  also  the  birthplace  of  Jay  Gould. 

West  of  the  mountains,  on  Otsego  Lake,  is  Cooperstown,  famous 
as  the  home  and  burial-place  of  J.  Fennimore  Cooper.  The  site  of 
the  old  Cooper  mansion  is  marked  by  a  statue  of  an  Indian  hunter. 

South  of  the  Catskills,  6  miles  west  of  New  Paltz,  is  the  famous 
resort  of  Lake  Mohonk,  near  the  summit  of  Sky  Top,  1,550  feet 
high,  one  of  the  Shawangunk  Mountains.  Here  are  held  notable 
annual  conferences  concerning  the  World's  Peace  and  the  welfare 
of  the  Indians.  Lake  Mohonk  can  be  easily  reached  from  Newburg 
or  Kingston  over  good  dirt  and  macadam  roads.  The  great  hotel 
at  Lake  Mohonk,  and  the  hotels  at  Lake  Minnewaska,  6  miles 
south,  are  managed  on  "a  strictly  temperate  plan,"  and  "visitors 
are  not  expected  to  arrive  or  depart  on  the  Sabbath."  The  charm 
of  the  scenery  in  the  region  consists  largely  in  the  attractive  mixture 
of  the  wild  and  gentle. 


Ill 


THE    HEART    OF    THE    HUDSON    HIGHLANDS 

FOR  a  distance  of  twenty  miles,  from  Cornwall  on 
the  north  to  Peekskill  on  the  south,  the  broad 
current  of  the  Hudson  twists  and  turns  among 
the  mountains.  Where  the  river  enters  this  realm  of 
rugged  peaks  are  the  two  opposing  heights  of  Storm 
King  and  Breakneck  Mountain,  forming  the  Northern 
Gate  of  the  Highlands.  Where  the  river  escapes  into 
the  milder  region  beyond  Peekskill  is  the  Southern  Gate 
guarded  by  the  Dunderberg  on  the  west  shore,  and  the 
Spitzenberg  Mountains  opposite.  Up  and  down  the 
stream  the  great  river  steamers  plough  their  way,  and 
the  canal-boat  tows  toil  back  and  forth,  and  there  are 
frequent  motor  boats  plying  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
towns,  and  now  and  then  one  sees  a  steam  yacht,  or, 
best  of  all,  especially  amid  the  wilder  scenery,  a  slow, 
old  sailing  vessel  dependent  wholly  on  the  vagaries  of 
the  winds. 

Hugging  close  to  either  shore  for  nearly  the  whole 
distance  through  the  Highlands  is  a  railroad,  and  to  get 
a  foothold,  even  at  the  water's  edge,  it  has  often  been 
necessary  to  blast  out  a  terrace  at  the  base  of  the  crags, 
or  to  open  a  way  through  some  outjutting  ridge  by 
cutting  down  from  the  top  or  by  tunnelling.  The 


48      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

thunder  of  the  trains  along  the  iron  rails  comes  to  the 
ear  almost  unceasingly,  the  air  is  apt  to  be  much 
dimmed  by  the  smoke  that  pours  forth  from  the  en- 
gines, and  you  are  constantly  reminded  that  the  valley 
is  a  great  commercial  highway. 

Perhaps  of  all  the  bordering  mountains  Storm  King 
is  the  best  known.  Its  abruptness  and  comparative 
isolation  make  it  particularly  impressive.  To  some  the 
name  seems  rather  sentimental,  but  to  most  it  is  in 
keeping  with  the  mountain's  size  and  character,  and 
they  would  not  have  it  replaced  with  the  older  cog- 
nomen of  Butter  Hill.  "A  pretty  big  lump  of  butter," 
one  of  the  long-time  residents  of  the  vicinity  commented 
to  me,  "but  it  really  does  have  the  shape  of  a  lump  of 
butter  if  you  see  it  from  some  points  of  view." 

He  called  my  attention  to  the  sister  height  across  the 
stream,  and  said:  "That's  another  big  bunch  of  rocks. 
They  say  an  Indian  fell  down  the  cliffs  there  once  and 
broke  his  neck,  and  so  they  call  it  Breakneck  Moun- 
tain." 

As  one  continues  southward  the  more  important 
mountains  are  Bull  Hill,  Crow  Nest,  Sugar  Loaf,  An- 
thony's Nose,  Bear  Hill,  and  the  Dunderberg,  all  steep 
and  ponderous,  and  with  many  a  bare,  gray  shoulder 
of  rock  showing  through  the  foliage.  About  half  way 
between  the  northern  and  southern  gates  is  West  Point 
with  its  magnificent,  castle-like  buildings  nestling  amid 
the  trees  near  the  cliff-bordered  river  and  having  a 
background  of  forested  ridges. 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  49 

Most  of  these  features  of  the  region  are  familiar  to 
whoever  has  journeyed  up  and  down  the  river,  but  I 
wanted  to  see  something  of  life  and  nature  beyond  the 
immediate  borders  of  the  stream.  On  the  map,  back 
among  the  mountains,  I  had  found  a  place  called 
Doodletown,  and  I  determined  to  make  its  acquain- 
tance, fully  persuaded  that  a  place  with  such  a  name 
and  in  such  a  situation  was  worth  investigating.  I  made 
a  guess  at  what  was  the  nearest  railroad  station,  and 
there  I  left  the  train  one  sunny  October  morning.  A 
short  climb  up  a  steep  hill  took  me  into  a  tiny  village 
in  a  wooded  glen,  where  one  of  the  natives  gave  me 
detailed  directions  so  that  the  crooks  and  partings  of 
the  roads  between  there  and  Doodletown  should  not 
puzzle  and  take  me  astray.  While  we  were  talking,  a 
shock-headed  country  boy  about  fourteen  years  old 
sat  on  a  store  porch  close  by.  He  looked  straight  ahead 
and  was  apparently  meditating,  wholly  oblivious  of 
what  was  going  on  around  him,  but  as  I  was  resuming 
my  walk  he  casually  observed  that  he  was  going  to 
Doodletown  and  would  show  me  the  way.  So  we  went 
on  together. 

I  presently  learned  that  my  companion's  name  was 
Johnny  Stotten.  He  was  at  first  somewhat  reticent,  but 
gradually  became  voluble  and  confidential.  "I'm 
goin'  to  be  a  boatman,"  he  said.  "I'll  get  a  job  on  a 
brick  barge,  don't  you  know?  This  year  I'm  in  school, 
but  I'll  be  on  the  river  next  year.  Some  boys  might 
not  like  handling  bricks,  but  I've  always  worked  from 


50      Highways  and]Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

a  kid  up,  and  I  don't  think  it'll  be  any  harder  than 
what  I've  had  to  do  up  here  in  the  mountains.  I  help 
loading  the  wagons  and  sleds  and  driving  the  horses. 
Some  of  the  cordwood  sticks  are  so  heavy  I  can't  hardly 
lift  'em,  and  often  we  have  to  draw  the  wood  from 
awful  rocky  places  where  it's  right  straight  down 
almost,  and  the  load  nearly  pushes  the  collars  off  the 
horses'  heads.  Once  in  a  while  there's  an  accident.  A 
man  near  us  was  up  in  the  woods  sleddin',  and  he  was 
walkin'  side  of  the  load  drivin'  when  he  stepped  on  a 
wet  stick — you  know  how  slippery  that  is.  His  feet 
went  from  under  him,  and  the  horses  drug  him  quite 
a  distance.  Some  of  his  ribs  was  broken  and  his 
shoulder,  and  he's  been  a  cripple  man  ever  since. 

"Do  you  see  those  dead  trees  up  there  on  that  slope? 
There  used  to  be  lots  of  highholes  in  them.  A  highhole 
is  a  bird  with  a  big,  long  mouth.  It's  like  a  woodpecker, 
only  larger.  They're  good  to  eat,  and  we  used  to  shoot 
'em  while  they  were  around  in  the  bushes  after  dog- 
wood and  sumach  berries. 

"Now  we're  passing  along  side  of  a  little  lake — High- 
land Lake,  they  call  it.  The  water  looks  clear  and  nice, 
but  it'll  poison  anyone  who  takes  a  drink.  It  makes 
your  mouth  itch  and  your  face  swell  up.  My  brother 
drank  some  once,  and  when  he  came  home  we  did  n't 
know  him.  Oh!  did  n't  he  have  a  big  face!  There's 
lots  of  fish  in  the  lake — black  bass,  perch,  pickerel,  and 
everything.  Gorry!  I  don't  know  what  is  n't  in  there. 
We've  eaten  many  a  nice  mess  of  'em. 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  51 

"A  battle  was  fought  near  here  in  the  Revolutionary 
War — that's  what  they  tell  me.  I  like  to  hear  about 
battles  and  I  like  to  read  history;  but  I  don't  like  to 
read  novels.  They  scare  me  so  my  hair  stands  up 
straight,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

"There's  a  family  of  Arabians  have  got  a  camp  off 
in  the  woods  on  this  side  road  that  leaves  the  main 
road  here.  The  man  goes  around  to  the  houses  and 
tells  fortunes.  I  guess  he  makes  money  because  he's 
always  dressed  good  when  I  seen  him.  He  wanted  to 
give  an  entertainment  in  the  schoolhouse,  but  they 
would  n't  let  him.  One  of  the  Doodletown  boys  went 
to  the  Arabians'  camp,  and  the  man  took  a  half  dollar 
and  blew  it  into  a  dollar.  The  boy  don't  want  to  go 
there  again.  He  says  they  are  witches.  I  would  n't 
want  to  see  'em  do  such  things,  and  I  don't  believe  they 
can.  They  have  some  kind  of  a  scheme  to  fool  you. 

"Way  up  on  that  mountain  ahead  of  us  a  horse  fell 
off  the  rocks  last  summer.  It  was  a  big  white  horse 
that  was  out  to  pasture,  and  it  broke  its  back  and 
busted  a  big  hole  in  its  head." 

At  last  we  reached  Doodletown  up  among  the  forest 
heights.  It  is  a  place  of  scattered  homes,  and  these  are 
dotted  along  on  divergent  roads  that  follow  up  various 
valleys  between  the  big  rocky  ridges.  Nowhere  is  there 
a  village  nucleus,  and  even  the  church,  the  schoolhouse, 
and  the  store  are  widely  separated  from  each  other,  and 
none  of  them  has  more  than  a  house  or  two  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity.  The  little  white  church  stands  at  the 


52      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

junction  of  two  roads,  and  close  by  was  a  great  way- 
side pile  of  cordwood.  This  wood  was  indicative  of  the 
chief  industry  of  the  region.  The  forests,  and  not  the 
diminutive  fields  or  the  few  cattle,  are  the  main  support 
of  the  people. 

One  of  the  dwellings  that  particularly  attracted  my 
attention  was  a  shed-like  structure  scarcely  high  enough 
to  stand  up  in.  Roundabout  the  grass  grew  rank,  and 
evidently  was  neither  cut  nor  browsed  off.  The  door 
was  padlocked.  On  the  end  of  the  hut  toward  the  road 
the  window  was  open  and  several  narrow  strips  of 
board  had  been  nailed  across  in  a  manner  to  suggest  a 
cage  for  savage  beasts;  and,  sure  enough,  when  we 
came  opposite  the  house,  several  dogs  leaped  up  on  the 
inside,  put  their  forepaws  on  the  windowsill  and  barked 
at  us  viciously. 

"Hello,  Danny,"  Johnny  said. 

"Who  are  you  speaking  to?"  I  asked. 

"Well,"  Johnny  said,  "the  man  who  lives  there  looks 
just  like  one  of  his  dogs,  and  I  can't  tell  whether  I  see 
Danny  or  the  tarrier  at  the  window;  so  I  say  'hello' 
anyway  when  I  go  past.  Danny  calls  the  dogs  his 
children.  He  lives  there  alone  with  'em,  and  when  he 
goes  off  to  work  he  locks  'em  in.  I  think  they  get  their 
noses  in  every  bit  of  food  he  eats." 

I  inquired  of  Johnny  where  I  could  find  a  lodging- 
place,  and  he  mentioned  several  homes  including  his 
own.  It  was  easier  to  continue  with  the  friend  I  already 
had  than  to  seek  refuge  among  entire  strangers,  and 


Going  a-milking 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  53 

we  went  on  up  one  of  the  valleys  to  the  last  house  on 
the  winding  mountain  road.  The  dwelling  was  a  shape- 
less, uncertain  structure,  the  older  portion  of  which 
had  at  some  time  been  painted  yellow.  At  the  front 
door  was  a  little  porch  with  a  broken  floor,  and  the 
porch  posts  were  so  decayed  at  the  base  that  they 
threatened  to  let  the  patched  and  twisted  roof  down 
altogether.  On  the  hard-trodden  earth  round  about 
was  a  great  variety  of  household  furniture — chairs  and 
rugs,  pieces  of  stovepipe,  etc.  The  boy's  mother  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  towsled  and  grimy-handed  and 
somewhat  disconcerted  by  the  advent  of  a  stranger. 
She  was  in  the  midst  of  housecleaning,  but  I  might 
stay  if  I  would  be  satisfied  with  the  accommodations 
they  could  furnish. 

So  I  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs  in  the  yard  where  I 
could  look  forth  at  the  mountains  aglow  in  the  sunshine 
with  their  autumn  tints  of  scarlet  and  gold.  Johnny 
and  a  younger  brother,  Gerald,  and  a  still  smaller  sister 
started  a  game  of  ball  at  one  side  of  the  house  amid  the 
weeds  and  upthrusting  boulders.  For  clubs  they  used 
woodpile  sticks,  and  their  ball  was  a  little  wad  of  cloth 
wound  about  with  string.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
laughter  in  their  play,  and  a  good  deal  of  scolding,  dis- 
puting, and  bluffing.  They  could  not  bat  the  ball  far 
without  its  going  into  the  brush  or  trees  or  over  a 
tumble-down  stone  wall.  Often  they  knocked  around 
some  hard,  green,  globular  fruit  that  strewed  the  ground 
under  one  of  the  yard  trees.  I  asked  what  the  green 


54      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

balls  were,  and  Gerald  said:  "We  call  'em  mock 
oranges,  but  they  hain't.  When  they  get  dry  they  smell 
awful  pretty  and  we  like  to  put  'em  in  the  bureau 
drawers  where  we  keep  our  clothes." 

Close  by  the  picket  gate  that  gave  entrance  to  the 
yard  was  a  big  dead  cherry  tree  with  its  gauntness 
almost  hidden  by  grapevines.  The  leafage  on  the  vines 
was  still  green,  and  here  and  there  I  could  catch 
glimpses  of  pendant  purple  clusters  of  grapes.  Pres- 
ently Johnny  went  and  stood  by  the  roadside  surveying 
the  tangle  of  vines  up  above.  "I  guess  I'll  have  to  get 
some  of  them  grapes,"  he  said  to  me.  "There's  grapes 
in  the  woods,  too — summer  grapes  and  frost  grapes. 
The  summer  grapes  grow  around  the  swamps.  They 
are  big  and  sweet,  and  we  pick  and  do  them  down.  If 
I'm  where  the  frost  grapes  are  after  they  are  ripe  I  eat 
'em  right  out  of  hand." 

Johnny  now  sat  down  and  took  off  his  shoes,  then 
gripped  the  tree  and  scuffled  upward  till  he  was  among 
the  branches.  Soon  the  grapeskins  began  to  drop,  and 
Gerald  observed  this  evidence  of  feasting  with  watering 
mouth.  "Give  us  a  bunch,  Johnny,"  he  called. 

But  Johnny  said  nothing,  and  the  grapeskins  con- 
tinued to  fall  with  irritating  profusion.  Gerald  repeated 
his  request  and  threw  one  of  the  hard  green  mock 
oranges  up  at  Johnny  as  an  inducement  to  comply. 
When  this  did  not  produce  the  desired  result  the  bom- 
bardment of  appeals  and  missiles  became  continuous. 
The  boy  in  the  tree  was  well  protected  by  vines,  and 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  55 

at  first  he  was  not  especially  disturbed.  But  after  a 
while  he  was  hit.  Then  he  protested  loudly  and  told  his 
brother  he  would  come  down  and  kill  him. 

"Chuck  us  a  bunch,  and  I  won't  bother  you," 
Gerald  said. 

Just  then  Lizzie,  a  grown-up  sister,  came  out  to  the 
road  and  addressing  Gerald  said:  "S'pos'n'  you  made 
Johnny  fall  out  of  the  tree.  I'll  go  right  in  and  tell 
mama  of  you." 

So  he  threw  a  few  mock  oranges  at  her,  which  made 
her  skip  and  screech.  Some  of  them  flew  in  my  direc- 
tion. "Stop  it,  Gerald!"  she  cried.  "You'll  hit  that 
man!  You  think  you're  awful  cunning,  but  you  just 
wait  till  papa  comes  home!" 

"Mama!"  she  called,  as  she  scurried  into  the  house, 
"Johnny's  in  the  grape  tree  and  Gerald's  pelting  him." 

Pretty  soon  she  reappeared.  "Johnny,"  she  called, 
"come  down  and  lick  him.  Come  down  and  chase  him 
till  you  ketch  him." 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Stotten  came  out  and  looked  up 
into  the  tree.  "Where  are  yer,  Johnny?"  she  said. 
"Why  don't  you  get  that  man  some  of  those  grapes? 
Pick  some  nice  bunches,  and  I'll  put  'em  in  a  dish." 

She  went  back  and  got  a  pan  and  caught  the  bunches 
as  he  tossed  them  down.  "They  all  smash,"  she  said 
depricatingly. 

"Go  git  a  apron,"  Johnny  said. 

She  brought  the  apron  and  holding  it  well  spread 
out  said:  "Let's  have  some  nice  big  ones,  Johnny. 


56      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

That's  it.  Well,  now,  Johnny,  get  a  few  more  bunches, 
and  then  hurry  down.  You've  got  to  go  to  the  store. 
I've  been  pokin'  you  to  go  all  the  afternoon." 

"I'll  be  right  down,"  Johnny  responded. 

"It  begins  to  get  cool,"  Mrs.  Stotten  said  to  me. 
"Perhaps  you'd  be  more  comfortable  sitting  in  the 
parlor.  The  men'll  get  home  soon,  and  they'll  be  com- 
pany for  you." 

I  went  in  and  she  brought  me  some  grapes  in  a  glass 
dish.  Most  of  them  were  intact,  and  the  clusters  were 
large,  though  the  individual  grapes  were  small.  While 
I  sat  by  the  open  window  eating  them  the  little  girl 
approached  shyly  outside  and  put  an  apple  on  the  sill 
for  me,  and  then  hastily  and  silently  departed. 

Mrs.  Stotten  presently  called  again  to  Johnny  who 
still  lingered  in  the  tree.  "I'm  coming,"  he  said  reas- 
suringly; but  not  until  he  had  been  called  once  or 
twice  more  did  he  descend.  Then  he  leisurely  put  on  his 
shoes  and  went  off  down  the  road  to  do  the  errand  at 
the  store. 

Mrs.  Stotten  now  began  supper  preparations  by 
going  to  where  a  few  long  sticks  lay  by  the  wayside 
and  cutting  enough  into  firewood  to  make  an  armful. 
She  wielded  the  ax  with  an  effective  vigor  that  was 
plainly  the  result  of  much  practice.  About  this  time 
the  man  of  the  house  arrived  with  Luther,  his  oldest 
son.  They  sat  down  in  the  parlor  with  me,  and  Mr. 
Stotten  said:  "You  some  resemble  a  man  named 
Willetts  who  comes  up  here  from  New  York  to  paint 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  57 

pictures.  He's  the  greatest  mountain  runner  I  ever 
seen  in  my  life.  That  feller  goes  around  our  rough 
roads  and  woods  just  for  pleasure.  Oh,  gracious  sakes, 
yes!" 

While  Mr.  Stotten  talked  he  smoked  his  pipe,  and 
from  time  to  time  he  relieved  himself  of  his  surplus 
saliva.  There  was  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  but  it  was  so 
cut  as  to  leave  a  strip  of  painted  floorboards  exposed 
along  the  borders  of  the  room,  and  it  was  this  strip  of 
flooring  that  received  his  expectorations. 

"I  heard  a  good  many  guns  goin'  today,"  he  con- 
tinued. "There's  fine  hunting  here.  I  don't  s'pose 
any  mountains  have  more  game  in  'em  than  these. 
You  see,  for  a  long  distance  back  westerly  it's  mostly 
wilderness  with  very  few  inhabitants.  We  have  any 
amount  of  red  and  gray  foxes,  and  once  in  a  while  a 
link  or  a  catamount,  and  sometimes  a  black  bear  travels 
through.  Probably  those  bigger  wild  animals  wander 
here  from  the  mountainous  country  in  Pennsylvanny. 
My  wife's  brother  come  across  one  of  those  Rocky 
Mountain  wildcats  when  he  was  out  with  his  dog  hunt- 
ing not  long  ago.  The  wildcat  clumb  a  tree,  and  it 
made  a  spring  for  him  just  as  he  shot  at  it.  Down  it 
come  close  to  him,  and  if  it  had  n't  been  hit  so  bad 
it  was  about  at  its  last  kicks  it  would  have  killed  him, 
dog  and  all.  A  wildcat  is  a  nasty  beast  when  it  comes 
to  fighting.  It  has  a  way  of  layin'  on  its  back  and 
scratchin'  a  dog  all  to  pieces. 

"This  is  my  native  region,  but  I've  worked  a  good 


58      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

deal  on  boats  up  and  down  the  Hudson  and  along  the 
coast.  One  while  I  worked  on  a  New  Haven  oyster 
boat,  and  what  feasts  I  had  then!  I  can  eat  oysters  till 
I  look  like  'em — eat  'em  raw  right  out  of  the  shell. 
Those  oysters  were  big — they  were  old  bouncers. 

"That  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  girl  who  lived  back  here 
in  the  mountains.  Her  home  was  in  what  is  called 
Burke's  Holler  over  t'other  side  of  Bull  Hill.  A  feller 
named  Henry  Newell,  who  used  to  run  around  with  her 
a  good  deal,  invited  her  to  go  with  him  to  West  P'int 
where  there  was  to  be  some  doin's.  This  'ere  girl 
had  n't  never  seen  the  river  before,  and  when  a  steam- 
boat hove  in  sight  she  grabbed  Henry  by  the  arm  and 
says,  'Look  a'  there!  What's  that  comin'  up  the  river?" 

"'That's  a  steamboat,'  Henry  says. 

"'How  old  is  that  steamboat?'  she  asked. 

"'I  s'pose  twelve  or  fourteen  years,'  Henry  says. 

'"Well,  my  gracious!'  the  girl  says,  if  she  grows  till 
she's  twenty  won't  she  be  a  bouncer!' 

"Henry  made  a  mistake  giving  her  that  outing. 
After  seein'  how  the  young  fellers  at  West  P'int  dressed 
and  behaved  she  concluded  he  wa'n't  smart  enough  for 
her.  He  was  expectin'  they'd  be  goin'  to  the  dominie 
soon  to  get  j'ined  together,  but  she  dropped  him.  That 
was  years  ago,  but  he  won't  stand  any  jokin'  on  the 
subject  even  now.  I  met  him  with  his  team  on  the 
road  lately  and  made  some  pleasant  remark  about  the 
age  of  steamboats  and  the  like  o'  that,  and  he  was 
goin'  to  knock  my  brains  out  with  a  cordwood  stick. 


Skinning  the  coon 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  59 

"That  girl  gives  you  a  fair  idea  of  the  ignorance  of 
some  of  the  people  in  these  parts  of  the  world.  I  s'pose 
there's  folks  back  here  who've  lived  to  a  terrible  age 
and  never  seen  New  York.  One  day  I  met  a  well-to-do 
man  I  knew  in  a  village  where  there  was  a  little  fruit 
and  candy  store  and  invited  him  to  have  an  ice-cream 
with  me  at  my  expense. 

"He  hung  back.  'I  don't  know  whether  I'd  like  it,' 
he  said. 

"But  I  insisted  on  to  him,  and  we  went  into  the 
little  store  and  had  some.  'Well,  John,  that's  pretty 
good,  ain't  it?'  he  says,  when  we  finished. 

"He  was  seventy  years  old,  and  in  his  hull  life  had 
never  tasted  ice-cream  before.  The  fact  is  he  was  that 
infernal  stingy  he  would  n't  buy  it  even  if  he 
wanted  it. 

"Another  old  man — his  name  was  Courtlandt  Powers 
— went  down  to  New  York  for  the  first  time.  When  he 
come  back  we  asked  him  how  it  looked.  He  said  he 
thought  it  was  quite  a  smart  place,  but  he  felt  no  satis- 
faction in  going  there  because  the  houses  were  so  blame 
thick  he  could  n't  see  anything." 

I  mentioned  the  salute  Johnny  and  I  had  received 
from  the  dogs  in  the  little  hut  down  the  road. 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Stotten  said,  "Danny  is  quite  a  dog 
fancier.  He  had  seven  or  eight  dogs  livin'  there  with 
him  one  while.  But  he  got  sick,  and  the  board  of 
health  come  up  and  decided  it  would  improve  the 
premises  and  his  chances  of  getting  well  to  dispose 


60      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

of  the  dogs.  They  sent  word  for  me  to  see  that  the 
dogs  was  all  shot.  I  went  there,  and  Danny  made  a 
great  fuss.  He  said  there  was  no  religion  in  dog- 
shooting,  and  no  man  who  Was  a  man  would  do  such 
a  thing — the  man  who'd  drag  away  a  poor  dog  and  kill 
it  must  have  a  heart  of  stone.  I  told  him  I  had  my 
orders,  but  he  would  n't  let  me  shoot  only  three. 

"Danny's  a  good  worker.  The  worst  you  can  say 
about  him  is  that  he's  an  opium-eater.  He'll  take  a 
two-ounce  bottle  of  laudanum  and  put  it  to  his  mouth 
and  drink  it  right  off,  and  he  has  to  have  the  opium  or 
he'd  die.  If  he  goes  without  it  any  length  of  time  he'll 
lay  right  in  fits  and  froth  at  the  mouth  like  a  mad  dog 
till  he  gets  it.  I  knew  a  woman  who  used  opium.  She 
lived  to  be  wonderful  old,  but  in  her  last  years  she  was 
all  withered  and  dried  up  so  there  was  nothing  of  her. 
When  she  did  n't  have  opium  she'd  be  in  such  distress 
you  would  n't  think  she'd  live  from  one  minute  to 
another,  but  when  she  got  some  again  she'd  be  up  in- 
side of  quarter  of  an  hour  and  around  as  lively  as  a 
cricket.  Luther,  you  remember  her.  That  was  Jim 
Beasley's  wife — mother  to  Mandy  and  Molly." 

Supper  was  now  announced,  and  Mr.  Stotten  knocked 
the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  Luther  threw  away  the 
stub  of  a  cigaret  he  had  been  puffing,  and  we  adjourned 
to  the  dining-room.  The  room  was  small,  and  with  its 
table,  chairs,  stove,  and  other  furniture  was  much 
crowded.  The  food  was  bountiful,  and  appetites  were 
hearty,  and  huge  mouthfuls  conveyed  on  the  knife 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  61 

blades  disappeared  with  remarkable  rapidity.  The 
place  of  honor  at  the  table  was  occupied  by  a  white- 
haired  patriarch  whom  Mr.  Stotten  addressed  as 
Daddy,  and  whom  the  children  called  Grampy.  "He's 
past  eighty  years  old,"  Mr.  Stotten  said  to  me,  "and 
just  as  well  as  he  ever  was.  You  never  had  a  doctor  to 
you  in  your  life,  did  you  Daddy?" 

"Wunst,"  the  veteran  said. 

"But  I'll  warrant  you  wa'n't  so  wonderful  serious 
sick  even  if  you  did  have  the  doctor,"  Mr.  Stotten  de- 
clared, and  he  turned  to  me  and  added,  "I  wish  my 
health  was  as  good  as  his." 

"Is  that  a  dog  under  the  table  stepping  on  my  feet?" 
Luther  said. 

Lizzie,  who  was  bringing  in  a  freshly-filled  dish  of 
potato  and  some  apple  sauce  from  the  little  leanto 
kitchen,  set  the  things  on  the  table,  and  investigated 
underneath.  "No,  it's  a  cat,"  she  announced. 

One  of  the  delicacies  in  the  bill  of  fare  was  honey. 
The  comb  that  contained  it  was  in  irregular  pieces  and 
the  cells  were  a  good  deal  broken.  "We  got  that  honey 
from  over  in  the  woods  a  few  days  ago,"  Mr.  Stotten 
explained.  "I  watched  some  bees  flying  away  from  a 
bunch  of  sumachs  and  saw  the  direction  they  took,  and 
I  follered  to  where  they  went  into  a  hole  in  the  rocks. 
We  put  sulphur  in  dry  rags  and  made  a  smudge.  That 
killed  most  of  'em,  though  some  people  say  that  bees 
killed  that  way  come  to  after  a  few  hours.  It  was  a 
bad  place  to  get  at.  Luther  crawled  down  in  head  first, 


62      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

and  I  held  onto  him  by  the  seat  of  his  pants.  He  cut 
the  honey  loose  and  then  hooked  onto  it  with  a  crotched 
stick  and  drew  it  out.  We  could  n't  help  its  dragging 
on  the  rock,  so  there's  some  grit  into  it.  But  we  got 
more  honey  than  I  ever  got  out  of  any  bee  tree  I've 
cut.  Luther  was  stung  quite  a  little  about  his  hands, 
and  they  swelled  up  like  cushions.  Will  you  have  some 
more  potato?  This  has  been  a  poor  year  for  raisin' 
potatoes  here.  We  planted  four  barrels,  but  I  doubt  if 
we'll  git  that  many.  We  had  a  fair  hay  crop.  Johnny 
and  Gerald  can  both  swing  a  scythe  now,  and  they're 
quite  a  help.  A  machine  is  not  much  use  here,  the 
fields  are  so  small,  and  there's  so  many  rocks  stickin' 
up,  and  so  many  swampy  spots." 

Johnny  returned  from  the  store  just  then.  He 
sidled  up  to  his  mother  rubbing  his  stomach  and  said: 
"I  don't  feel  good.  Will  some  one  else  milk  for  me?" 

"Yes,  I  will,"  she  responded. 

Then  Gerald  wanted  some  one  to  milk  for  him,  not 
because  he  did  n't  feel  well,  but  because  he  had  filled 
the  woodbox  and  he  thought  he  had  done  his  share  of 
work.  His  plea  was  not  successful,  and  the  evening 
tasks  were  done  somehow.  Even  the  invalid  Johnny 
did  not  escape  scot-free,  for  when  it  was  announced  that 
the  horse  had  strayed  off  down  the  road  he  was  obliged 
to  go  out  and  pursue  it  in  the  thickening  gloom  of  the 
evening. 

I  had  gone  back  to  the  parlor.  In  the  center  of  the 
room  was  a  little  stand  with  a  big  shabby  family  Bible 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  63 

on  it,  and  in  one  corner  was  a  marble  topped  table,  the 
edge  of  which  had  been  beautified  by  a  band  of  home- 
applied  bronze.  The  other  furniture  included  several 
modern  easy  chairs,  two  attractive  rugs,  a  stove,  and 
a  little  organ.  On  the  corner  table  was  an  ornate  lamp 
of  huge  dimensions.  It  was  such  a  lamp  as  seldom 
makes  an  advent  into  as  humble  a  home  except  as  the 
result  of  a  wedding,  and  how  it  got  there  I  could  not 
imagine.  But  Mrs.  Stotten  came  in  and  lighted  it  and 
with  some  pride  inforrried  me  she  had  earned  it  acting 
as  an  agent  in  selling  soap,  coffee,  tea,  witch-hazel,  and 
similar  things  in  the  neighborhood.  "Every  time  I  sell 
ten  dollars'  worth,"  she  said,  "I  send  on  the  money, 
and  get  as  pay  for  my  work  something  nice  for  my 
rooms.  You  can  furnish  your  whole  house.  I  can  sell 
ten  dollars  worth  in  a  day  pretty  near.  I  just  hitch  up 
the  horse  and  drive  around.  Most  everyone  will  take 
off  me  when  I  go  myself.  If  I  send  the  children  they 
won't  do  as  well.  I  only  go  in  summer  when  money's 
plenty,  and  I  sell  two  or  three  ten  dollar  lots  in  a  season. 
That  cuckoo  clock  on  the  wall  is  one  of  the  things  I  got. 
I  don't  always  take  the  trouble  to  wind  it,  and  I  see 
it  ain't  going,  but  I'll  start  it  and  you  can  hear  it 
strike." 

She  wound  it  up  and  resumed  her  seat,  and  pretty 
soon  it  struck  eleven,  and  its  melodious  notes  seemed 
to  sufficiently  atone  for  the  fact  that  it  was  four  or  five 
hours  out  of  the  way.  While  Mrs.  Stotten  and  I  were 
talking  the  little  girl  came  in  and  climbed  into  her 


64      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

mother's  lap,  and  began  to  tell  about  playing  ball  that 
afternoon.  "I  made  three  runs,"  she  announced. 

"Well  I  bet  yer,"  the  mother  commented.  "This  is 
the  baby,"  she  added  to  me.  "She's  seven  years  old, 
and  now  it's  her  bedtime." 

She  went  away  with  the  little  girl,  and  soon  after- 
ward Johnny  looked  in  at  the  parlor  door  and  said: 
"Pop  says  for  you  to  come  out  in  the  other  room  where 
there's  a  fire.  We  ain't  got  the  stovepipe  up  in  here 
yet.  There's  a  fireplace  in  back  of  that  stove,  but  it's 
boarded  up  and  we  don't  use  it.  In  the  summer  we 
hear  the  young  swallows  holler  in  there.  Once  I  took 
away  the  board  and  found  one  of  the  big  swallows.  I 
made  a  grab  and  caught  him.  He  had  little  black  eyes. 
I  carried  him  outdoors  and  let  him  go.  I  like  to  see 
the  swallows  fly." 

When  I  entered  the  dining-room  Mr.  Stotten  was 
leaning  over  the  lamp  that  was  on  the  table  lighting 
his  pipe  at  the  top  of  the  chimney.  Luther  was  pre- 
paring to  write  a  letter,  but  was  having  difficulty  in 
finding  paper.  A  week  ago  he  had  a  box  full,  and  now 
as  he  shook  the  box  and  looked  into  it  ruefully  he  dis- 
covered only  one  lone  envelope.  "Who  uses  my  paper 
like  that?"  he  said.  "Gorry!  I  wish  they'd  leave  some- 
thing alone.  I  s'pose  if  I'd  waited  another  day  that 
envelope  would  have  been  gone,  too." 

However,  with  his  mother's  help,  he  was  at  last 
furnished  with  writing  materials.  "Liz,"  he  said,  as 
he  settled  down  to  start  his  letter,  "you  go  and  get  me 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  65 

some  water  to  drink.  The  pail  in  the  back  room  is 
empty." 

They  got  their  water  from  a  well  in  front  of  the  house 
of  their  nearest  neighbor. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  go,"  Liz  said.    "I'm  afraid." 

"Oh,  go  on,"  Luther  urged. 

"No,"  Liz  persisted. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  Mrs.  Stotten  said.  "I  can't  keep 
the  Old  Boy  away  from  you,  but  I  guess  I  can  protect 
you  from  the  dark." 

So  Liz  got  the  pail  and  the  two  went  forth  into  the 
night. 

"This  region  has  been  settled  a  long,  long  time," 
Mr.  Stotten  said.  "There  were  people  living  here  be- 
fore the  Revolutionary  War,  and  the  British  soldiers 
who  marched  back  and  forth  through  the  mountain 
called  them  the  Yankee  Doodle  Boys.  That's  the  way 
the  name  of  Doodletown  started.  Once  there  was  a 
big  fight  between  the  Hessians  and  the  Americans  down 
by  Highland  Lake.  Oh!  it  was  a  bloody  battle.  Our 
men  slaughtered  them  Hessians  right  and  left,  and  after 
the  fight  ended  they  threw  the  dead  into  the  lake.  There 
was  so  many  they  say  a  person  could  walk  across  on 
those  dead  bodies.  The  water  is  eighty  to  ninety  feet 
deep  anywhere  you  might  to  measure  it,  and  in  one 
place  they  claim  there  ain't  no  bottom  at  all.  A  while 
ago  a  young  feller  who  was  fishing  on  the  lake  raised 
a  body  with  his  hook.  But  he  was  so  scairt  when  he 
brought  the  dead  man  to  the  surface  that  he  took  out 


66      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

his  hook  and  let  the  body  sink.  Then  he  could  n't 
get  it  again.  It  had  on  a  uniform  of  gray  cloth  with 
two  rows  of  brass  buttons  down  the  front,  and  a  yaller 
stripe  across  the  shoulders,  and  a  yaller  band  around 
the  sleeves.  The  body  itself  wa'n't  decayed,  but  was 
petrified  just  like  a  clay  man.  Whether  that's  true  or 
not  he  always  told  it  straight.  I've  heard  him  tell  it 
myself  as  many  as  half  a  dozen  times.  Yes,  it's  likely 
there's  lots  of  dead  men  down  in  that  lake. 

"The  water  in  it  is  bad.  I'll  guarantee  that  whoever 
drinks  it  will  have  trouble.  There  used  to  be  a  big  ice- 
house by  the  lake,  and  in  the  winter  three  hundred  men 
would  be  working  to  fill  it.  They  drank  the  water,  and 
they  all  had  sore  lips  and  a  sore  mouth.  Then  they 
got  quills  for  to  suck  through,  but  it  still  made  'em 
have  sore  tongues  and  sore  throats." 

"A  great  many  years  ago,"  Mrs.  Stotten  said,  "one 
of  my  relations — Hiram  Holley,  his  name  was — found 
a  skull  on  that  battlefield,  and  he  took  it  home.  Ole 
Mis  Holley  kept  it  in  her  bedroom  on  the  bureau  as  a 
kind  of  ornament.  Gracious  sake!  what  an  ugly  thing 
it  must  have  been.  I  don't  think  I'd  want  it  on  my 
bureau  lookin'  at  me.  Once  my  mother,  when  she  was 
a  girl,  went  visitin'  the  Holleys  for  a  few  days,  and  they 
put  her  in  that  bedroom  to  sleep.  But  she  would  n't 
stay  in  there,  and  I  guess  I  would  n't  either." 

"That  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  story  I  heared  a  feller 
tell  down  in  Jersey,"  Mr.  Stotten  said.  "Two  men 
was  workin'  in  a  cemetery,  and  in  their  talkin'  they 


Ready  to  start  after  partridges 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  67 

begun  to  brag  of  how  bold  they  were.  'I'd  dare  go 
anywhere  the  darkest  night  that  ever  was,'  says  one. 

"'Well,'  says  the  other,  'I'll  bet  you  wouldn't  go 
in  that  vault  over  there  at  midnight  and  pick  up  a 
dead  man's  skull  and  bring  it  out.' 

"'I'll  bet  you  a  gallon  of  rum  I'll  do  it  this  very 
night,'  says  the  first  man. 

"So  about  midnight  he  went  to  the  tomb.  The 
other  feller  had  got  there  first  and  was  hiding  inside 
intending  to  give  his  friend  a  scare.  The  man  walked 
in  and  felt  around  until  he  got  hold  of  a  skull,  when  the 
other  feller  says,  'Let  that  alone.  That's  my  skull.' 

'"Well,  if  that's  yours,  I  don't  want  it,'  the  feller 
says.  'I'll  find  another.' 

"After  a  little  search  he  found  one,  and  the  other 
feller  hollers  out,  'Let  that  alone.  That's  my  skull.' 

"'But  they  can't  both  be  yours,'  the  feller  says. 
'There's  only  one  man  talkin'!  I'm  goin'  to  have  this 
anyhow.' 

"So  out  he  walked  with  it,  and  he  won  the  bet." 

Luther  had  now  finished  writing,  and  he  brought 
out  a  rattlesnake  skin  to  show  me.  The  live  beast  had 
been  over  five  feet  long,  and  on  the  end  of  the  tail  were 
ten  rattles  and  a  button.  "I  come  across  him  right  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,"  Luther  said,  "and  when  I 
threw  a  stone  at  him  he  showed  fight  and  rattled  and 
struck  at  me.  Rattlesnakes  have  tushes  that  are  just 
like  cat's  claws,  and  they  open  up  their  mouth  wide 
and  hack  at  you." 


68      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"There  used  to  be  a  man  who  had  a  saloon  down  by 
the  river,"  Mr.  Stotten  said.  "Wildcat  Bill  they  called 
him,  and  he  was  a  wildcat,  too.  He  kep'  some  snakes 
there.  I  did  n't  know  he  had  the  devilish  things  till 
one  day  I  was  in  the  saloon  and  an  Irishman  come  in 
and  says,  'Can  I  get  some  beer  here?' 

"'Sure  thing,'  says  Bill.  'I  got  beer  that  would 
make  a  dead  man  alive,  and  a  live  man  dead.' 

"He  filled  a  glass  and  put  it  on  the  counter  and  then 
reached  underneath  and  got  a  great  big  rattlesnake 
and  stretched  it  beside  the  glass.  When  the  Irishman 
saw  that  snake  he  gave  one  frightened  whoop  and 
dashed  out  of  the  door.  Wildcat  Bill  was  too  fond  of 
playing  those  little  jokes  with  his  snakes.  His  saloon 
did  n't  prosper,  and  he  gave  up  the  business." 

Johnny  was  sitting  with  a  dog  in  his  lap,  and  he 
mentioned  that  last  summer  the  dog  had  been  bitten 
by  a  rattlesnake.  "Yes,"  Mr.  Stotten  said,  "and  for 
two  or  three  days  afterward,  if  he  heard  a  grasshopper 
or  any  little  noise  along  the  way,  he'd  imagine  'twas  a 
rattler,  and  he'd  almost  jump  out  of  his  skin.  I  laughed 
at  him  till  I  had  a  pain  in  the  side.  I  put  kerosene  on 
his  bite — put  it  on  good  and  plenty.  That  kills  the 
p'isen  right  on  the  spot — kills  it  in  a  jiffy  as  dead  as 
a  stone 

"The  biggest  rattlesnake  I  ever  killed  had  only  five 
rattles,"  Luther  observed,  "but  I  seen  one  another 
feller  killed  that  had  twenty-seven.  They  claim  the 
first  button  comes  when  the  snake  is  three  years  old 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  69 

and  after  that  one  rattle  grows  every  year,  but  the 
snake  with  twenty-seven  was  n't  large.  I  believe 
snakes  are  a  good  deal  like  people,  and  shrink  up  when 
they  get  old." 

"Pop  come  near  being  bitten  by  a  copperhead  once," 
Johnny  said.  "It  fastened  onto  his  pantleg,  and  he 
was  dragging  it  along  when  I  told  him  of  it." 

"I  tell  you,  a  copperhead  is  a  bad  animal  to  have 
hold  of  you,"  Mr.  Stotten  affirmed.  "I  don't  want  one 
to  draw  any  blood  on  me." 

"But  a  rattlesnake  is  ten  times  more  p'isener," 
Luther  commented. 

"You's  think  that  in  a  wooded  country  like  this 
there'd  be  considerable  timber  good  for  building  pur- 
poses," Mr.  Stotten  said,  "but  we  have  to  buy  all  our 
lumber.  There  ain't  a  sawmill  in  the  region.  There 
used  to  be  plenty  in  the  olden  time,  and  you  can  still 
find  the  places  where  they  stood,  and  the  ruins  of  their 
dams.  The  mountains  are  kep'  cut  off  in  supplying 
cordwood  to  the  brickyards,  and  we  manage  to  get  it 
all  no  matter  where  it  grows.  If  the  slopes  are  too  steep 
for  a  team,  we  pitch  the  wood  down  or  make  gutters 
and  slide  it  down. 

"Daddy,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice  and  addressing 
the  old  man,  who  was  sitting  by  the  stone  in  the  leanto 
kitchen,  "you  can  remember,  before  coal  was  common, 
when  they  tuck  most  all  the  wood  from  here  to  New 
York  to  use  for  kindlings  and  firewood  in  the  house- 
stoves." 


yo      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"Oh,  good  gracious,  yes!"  the  patriarch  said. 

"Some  curious  stories  are  told  about  what  happened 
through  here  in  the  early  days,"  Mr.  Stotten  said. 
'There  was  Cap'n  Blauvell,  for  instance.  He  was 
a-sailin'  his  sloop  down  near  Haverstraw  one  dark 
night,  when  his  crew  heard  some  one  holler  to  him 
three  times — 'Hello!  Jake  Blauvell.'  He  anchored  and 
went  ashore  in  a  boat,  and  after  a  while  he  come  back. 
They  sailed  on  down  to  New  York,  discharged  the 
cargo,  and  returned  to  Haverstraw,  and  there  the 
cap'n  laid  up  his  sloop.  He  did  n't  make  any  more 
voyages,  and  from  that  time  off  he  was  a  terrible  rich 
man.  Whoever  it  was  that  called  to  him  must  have 
told  him  where  treasure  was  buried.  They  calculate 
he  dug  it  up  somewhere  on  the  beach  here  by  lona 
Island.  It  had  been  buried  by  Captain  Kidd,  I  suppose. 
Kidd's  vessel  was  chased  up  here  one  time  by  a  govern- 
ment ship.  When  he  saw  he  could  n't  escape,  he 
scuttled  his  ship  and  went  ashore  in  a  boat  that  was 
just  loaded  with  gold  and  silver.  In  the  rocks  up  above 
West  P'int  there's  what  is  called  Kidd's  Cave.  They 
say  a  skeleton  of  a  man  was  found  in  it  and  quite  some 
treasure,  too,  and  they  think  Captain  Kidd  must  have 
crawled  in  there  and  died. 

"I  understand  there's  treasure  right  on  the  United 
States  grounds  at  West  P'int.  In  1872  three  men 
offered  three  thousand  dollars  for  the  privilege  of 
digging  under  the  corner  of  the  government  barn  there. 
I  know  that  to  be  a  fact,  and  it  made  quite  an  excite- 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  71 

ment  in  the  papers  at  the  time.  But  the  government 
would  n't  let  'em  dig.  The  men  were  Mart  and  Sam 
Conklin  and  Josiah  Hunter.  Mart,  he  told  me  himself 
that  as  near  as  he  could  calculate  by  an  instrument 
they  used  for  discovering  precious  metals,  a  hogshead 
half  full  of  gold  and  silver  was  buried  right  there.  I 
knowed  Mart  well,  but  'tain't  likely  he'd  have  told  me 
if  he  had  n't  had  a  little  rum  in. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  an  instrument  that  would 
locate  treasure?  I'd  almost  take  my  oath  they  used 
a  witch-hazel  crotch.  That  boy  there,"  he  said,  indi- 
cating Luther,  "can  take  a  witch-hazel  limb  and  find 
a  ten  cent  piece  anywhere.  A  peach  limb  does  just  as 
well,  and  there's  a  feller  down  at  Jones  P'int  uses 
basswood  in  preference  to  either.  You  grip  the  end  of 
a  branch  in  each  hand  so  the  crotch  p'ints  straight  up, 
and  when  you  come  to  where  you  are  over  money  or 
a  spring  of  water,  it  tips  outward  and  down.  But  with 
me  it  draws  right  back  to  my  body.  That  shows  I'm 
pretty  well  charged  with  electricity.  Anyhow,  I  can't 
locate  less  than  eight  or  ten  dollars.  But  I've  been 
thinkin'  lately  that  I  always  had  a  big  silver  watch  in 
my  pocket.  Perhaps  it  was  that  made  the  difference. 

"They  say  those  three  men  dug  up  a  pot  of  money 
out  here  in  Orange  County  near  Galloway's  Tavern. 
I  did  n't  see  the  pot,  but  I've  seen  the  cover.  It  lay 
there  at  Turner's  Station  on  the  stoop  a  long  time,  and 
it  was  kind  of  a  flat  stone  about  three  inches  thick  and 
eighteen  across  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  knocked 


72      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

with  a  hammer  and  made  pretty  near  round.  Four 
columns  of  letters  was  cut  into  it,  but  no  one  could  read 
'em.  I've  seen  that  cover  I  s'pose  a  dozen  times. 

"On  one  of  our  mountains  there's  some  strange 
letters  cut  into  a  rock.  They're  in  two  rows,  and  one 
row  is  twelve  feet  long,  and  the  other  nearly  as  long. 
The  letters  are  formed  by  making  nicks  in  the  rock 
with  a  stone  chisel.  The  nicks  are  not  deep,  and  they 
are  a  little  distance  apart.  You  can  only  see  'em  one 
time  in  the  day,  when  the  sun  shines  ag'in'  the  rock  in 
the  afternoon.  The  rock  is  very  difficult  to  find.  Years 
ago  two  boys  named  Horace  Flemming  and  Henry 
Keyser  come  across  it,  and  when  they  left  the  place 
they  never  dremp  but  that  they  could  go  right  back  any 
time  they  pleased.  But  them  boys  could  n't  find  that 
rock  ag'in,  though  they  hunted  and  hunted  and  hunted. 
Other  people  could  n't  either,  or  if  they  did  they 
could  n't  go  back  to  it.  Those  boys  noticed  that  they 
could  see  Flemming's  house  as  they  looked  down  from 
the  lettered  rock  on  the  mountain  top.  But  from  the 
house  the  mountain  could  n't  be  seen  on  account  of  a 
knoll  between.  Seems  as  if  there  was  a  kind  of  en- 
chantment about  the  spot.  Once  a  clairvoyant  woman 
was  taken  up  there  on  the  mountain  to  see  what  she 
could  discover,  but  she  could  n't  do  anything.  She 
had  fits  and  fainted  away  and  everything  else,  and  she 
said  all  sorts  of  spirits  was  up  there  follerin'  her. 

"It's  supposed  that  the  letters  chipped  on  that  rock 
tell  where  the  Long  Tinker's  silver  mine  is  on  Black 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  73 

Mountain.  That  mine  was  worked  by  the  Indians 
when  the  white  men  first  come  to  this  country.  Finally 
an  Italian  come  into  the  mountains  here,  and  he  was 
terrible  tall  and  a  tinker  by  trade,  so  he  was  knowed 
as  the  Long  Tinker.  The  Indians  asked  him  if  he 
could  n't  find  any  better  business  than  that  for  makin' 
a  livin,'  and  he  told  'em,  'No.'  Then  they  tuck  and 
showed  him  this  silver  mine.  After  working  it  for  a 
good  while  and  getting  all  the  silver  he  wanted  he  went 
back  to  Italy  with  his  wealth.  In  the  meantime  the 
Indians  had  cleared  out,  and  no  one  else  knew  anything 
about  where  the  mine  was  until  it  was  discovered  by 
Cap'n  Waldron  and  Alexander  Bulson.  While  hunting 
on  Black  Mountain  they  come  to  a  brush  fence,  and 
forced  their  way  through  it  and  found  three  beaten 
paths.  They  followed  one  path,  and  it  led  to  a  spot 
where  the  long  tinker  had  made  charcoal  for  to  melt 
his  ore,  and  among  the  weeds  and  bushes  was  a  little 
forge  and  crucible.  They  comeback  and  follered  an- 
other of  the  paths,  and  it  went  down  a  hill  to  where  the 
tinker  had  dumped  cinders  in  a  brook.  The  third  path 
tuck  'em  to  the  mine,  the  mouth  of  which  was  corked 
up  with  a  lot  of  wood  that  had  been  stuffed  into  it. 
They  tried  to  pull  some  of  the  wood  out,  but  it  was 
rotten  and  would  n't  hold  together.  The  guns  they 
carried  were  a  long  old-fashioned  flintlock  sort  in  com- 
mon use  at  that  time,  called  buccaneer  guns;  and  they 
reached  in  as  far  as  they  could  with  'em  and  did  n't 
strike  no  end  to  the  hole.  Right  at  the  edge  of  the 


74      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

opening  was  a  shelf  cut  out  of  the  rock,  and  on  it  was 
a  lot  of  ore.  They  picked  up  some  and  started  back 
down  the  mountain.  By  and  by  Bulson  throwed  his 
ore  away.  He  said  he  had  stone  enough  on  his  land  at 
home  without  lugging  on  any  more.  But  Cap'n 
Waldron  tuck  hisn  on  board  his  packet  sloop,  and  there 
he  kep'  it  two  or  three  years.  You  see,  neither  he  nor 
Bulson  knew  anything  about  the  Long  Tinker  and  they 
did  n't  bother  to  investigate  further.  One  day  a  young 
feller  who'd  come  aboard  the  cap'n's  packet  and  was 
lookin'  around  happened  to  notice  that  ore  from  Black 
Mountain  and  he  asked  what  it  was. 

'"I  don't  know,'  says  the  cap'n.  'I  found  it  in  the 
mountain  in  an  old  mine  hole.' 

"'Can  I  take  it  and  have  it  tested?'  the  feller  asks. 

'"Yes,  take  it  and  welcome,'  says  the  cap'n,  and  he 
never  made  any  inquiry  what  the  feller's  name  was  or 
where  he  could  find  him. 

"He'd  pretty  near  forgot  all  about  the  matter  when 
a  few  months  later  that  feller  spoke  to  him  on  a  street 
in  New  York,  and  said  the  ore  was  the  richest  of  blue 
silver  and  wanted  to  know  where  the  mine  was  located. 
They  come  up  here  to  the  mountains  and  went  to 
hunting  for  it.  But  they  could  n't  find  it,  and  then 
they  called  on  Alexander  Bulson  and  asked  him  if  he 
knew  where  it  was.  'By  my  life!'  said  he,  'I  could  go 
there  the  darkest  night  that  ever  blowed.  I  could  find 
the  way  blindfolded.' 

"The  next  morning  all  three  started  out,  and  they 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  75 

hunted  till  they  had  to  give  it  up;  and  that  mine  hain't 
been  found  since.  But  once  a  feller  was  up  on  Black 
Mountain  lookin'  for  sheep,  and  something  happened 
to  him.  What  it  was  he  never  would  tell,  except  that 
he  went  into  a  trance  and  when  he  come  to  himself  he 
was  close  by  the  mine.  Yet  he  would  n't  go  back 
there,  nor  tell  others  how  to  go.  Long  afterward,  when 
he  was  on  his  death  bed,  they  went  and  tried  to  get  him 
to  tell,  and  they  thought  he  would  n't  refuse  them, 
but  he  did." 

About  the  time  this  tale  was  finished  Luther  came 
in  from  the  hall  with  a  hunting-coat  on,  carrying  a  gun 
and  a  lantern.  "Come  boys,"  he  said  to  the  dogs,  and 
they  roused  up  and  leaped  about  him  eagerly.  "I'm 
goin'  coon-hunting,"  he  explained,  and  he  lighted  a 
cigaret  and  departed. 

"I've  give  up  hunting  coons  myself,"  Mr.  Stotten 
said.  "The  last  time  I  went  I  got  so  dead  tired  I 
vowed  I'd  never  go  again.  Steve  Burrows  went  with 
me.  Perhaps  you've  heard  of  him.  He's  one  of  the 
biggest  politicianers  anywhere  in  this  region.  Yes, 
he's  in  politics  head  over  heels.  A  coon  will  go  up  a 
tree  after  the  dogs  have  run  it  pretty  tight,  and  then 
you  generally  have  a  chance  to  shoot  it;  but  Steve  and 
I  run  one  an  hour  and  then  it  went  into  a  holler  tree, 
and  as  we  did  n't  have  no  ax  with  us  we  had  to  give  up 
tryin'  to  get  that  coon.  I  guess  we  travelled  thirty 
miles  that  night,  and  then  we  laid  in  the  woods  all  day 
afterward.  The  next  night  we  got  on  the  trail  of  a 


76      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

wildcat.  He'd  run  for  a  while  and  climb  a  tree,  and 
before  we'd  get  near  enough  to  shoot  he'd  jump  down 
and  run  again.  Finally  we  tuck  the  dogs  off  the  track. 
If  we  had  n't  they'd  be  follering  that  wildcat  still. 
Later  the  dogs  got  after  some  coons,  and  they  treed 
'em,  and  pretty  soon  we  had  'em.  There  was  four. 
That  satisfied  us  and  we  started  for  home.  By  the 
time  we  got  there  we  was  tired  out  and  half  starved 
out,  too." 

Everyone  had  gone  to  bed  but  Mr.  Stotten  and  I, 
and  now  I  retired  also.  About  an  hour  later  I  was 
aroused  by  voices  calling  my  name  and  by  a  thumping 
on  my  door.  Then  Mr.  Stotten  and  Luther  came  into 
my  room.  The  latter  carried  his  lantern  and  a  coon 
he  had  shot.  "The  dogs  found  it  in  a  pile  of  wood  that 
had  upsot,"  said  he,  "and  they  scared  it  out  and  it  ran 
along  an  old  woodroad.  Why  the  deuce  it  did  n't 
go  up  the  timber  I  don't  know,  but  it  kep'  on  till  it 
come  to  a  slippery,  slanting  rock.  It  scampered  along 
that  rock  toward  a  cliff,  but  as  soon  as  I  stepped  on 
the  rock  I  slid  down,  gun,  lantern,  and  all,  into  a  brook. 
The  dogs  overtook  the  coon  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  and 
they  fought  it  to  beat  the  band.  A  coon  is  a  pretty 
cunning  animal,  and  it's  awful  strong  and  spunky.  I 
scrambled  up  somehow  to  where  the  coon  was,  and  I 
managed  to  kick  it  two  or  three  times  to  help  the  dogs 
out.  Then  it  broke  away  and  was  climbing  up  the 
rocks  when  I  shot  it.  Just  heft  it  and  see  how  solid 
it  is." 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  77 

So  I  hefted  the  coon,  and  after  a  few  final  comments 
my  visitors  left  me. 

In  the  morning,  soon  after  six,  I  heard  Mr.  Stotten 
tramping  upstairs  and  calling  the  boys,  and  by  and  by 
we  had  breakfast,  with  flapjacks  for  the  chief  item  in 
the  menu.  There  was  a  heaped-up  plate  when  we 
started,  and  fresh  additions,  hot  from  the  backroom 
stove,  kept  it  heaping  to  the  very  end,  in  spite  of  our 
vigorous  attacks.  After  we  finished,  Johnny  had  me 
look  at  one  of  the  dogs  that  had  gone  on  the  hunt  the 
previous  night.  There  were  bloodstains  on  the  dog's 
neck  and  marks  of  the  coon's  teeth.  "We  got  a  standing 
offer  of  forty  dollars  for  him,"  Johnny  said.  "He's 
gettin'  kind  o'  old  now,  but  he's  smart  as  a  whip  and 
ain't  afraid  of  nothin'.  The  only  trouble  is  that  his 
teeth  are  worn  down  so  he  can't  get  a  holt  and  hang  on. 

"One  of  our  dogs  was  poisoned  last  spring  right  in 
his  coop  in  the  yard.  He  was  a  tarrier — a  little  bit  of  a 
runt  like.  In  the  morning  we  found  him  lying  there 
all  swelled  up.  Gosh!  we  gave  him  sweet  milk  and  all 
we  could  think  of,  but  it  did  n't  do  no  good." 

"There's  some  queer  things  happen  here,"  Mr. 
Stotten  said.  "Down  on  the  river  road  a  barn  burned 
last  week.  Some  one  had  been  stealing  from  the  man 
that  owned  it.  Every  time  he'd  git  a  load  of  feed  the 
thief  would  come  and  help  himself  and  take  a  hundred 
pounds  or  so.  The  man  got  tired  of  bein'  robbed,  and 
he  bought  some  locks  and  fastened  his  barn  up  good 
and  tight.  That  very  night,  after  he  went  in  and  sot 


78      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

down  to  eat  supper,  his  wife  said:  'Oh  look!  What 
a  light!' 

"The  barn  was  on  fire.  He  ran  out  intendin'  to 
save  his  horses.  His  wife  tried  to  hold  him,  but  he 
shook  her  off  and  went  into  the  burning  barn,  and  cut 
the  horses  loose  and  clubbed  'em  out.  It  was  a  nice 
big  barn,  and  he  always  kep'  his  flour  and  meat  in  there, 
and  he  had  lots  of  good  tools  in  it,  and  a  carriage  that 
cost  one  hundred  and  thirty  dollars,  and  farm  wagons 
and  twenty  ton  of  hay.  He  ain't  got  a  secret  too  good 
to  tell  me,  and  since  the  fire  we've  talked  things  over. 
It's  his  idee  that  the  guilty  man  is  a  feller  that's  lately 
moved  into  the  neighborhood  who  has  a  habit  of  layin' 
around  all  day  doin'  nothin'.  He's  often  been  seen  to 
hitch  up  in  the  evening  and  start  off  somewhere,  and 
he  must  return  late  in  the  night,  for  no  one  sees  him 
coming  back.  A  man  who  does  like  that  I  would  n't 
trust  noways.  But  you  have  to  be  careful  what  you 
say  when  you  can't  prove  it.  No,  people  dassen't  say 
much  for  fear  he  might  burn  'em  up  while  they  lay 
asleep." 

"I  saw  someone  come  snoopin'  around  our  house 
one  evening,"  Luther  said.  "My  gun  was  right  handy 
in  the  shed,  and  I  picked  it  up  and  blazed  away  at  the 
feller  as  he  was  goin'  down  through  the  orchard.  I 
shot  to  hit,  too,  but  I  probably  did  n't." 

Now  the  younger  boys  got  their  milkpails  and  went 
to  the  little  barn  where  each  had  a  cow  to  milk.  One 
of  the  cows  was  tied  in  the  barn  because  it  had  no 


The  Heart  of  the  Hudson  Highlands  79 

respect  for  fences,  but  the  other  was  in  the  barnyard. 
Luther  took  his  coon,  fastened  it  up  on  the  sunny  side 
of  a  shed,  and  began  skinning  it.  Several  dogs  lingered 
about  him,  shivering  in  the  chill  morning  air  and 
watching  him  hungrily.  I  could  not  help  remarking  on 
the  appearance  of  one  of  the  dogs,  he  was  so  very  lean 
and  bony  and  forlorn.  "That  dog  has  got  a  good 
pedigree,"  Luther  said,  "but  he  killed  one  of  our 
chickens  in  the  summer,  and  that  has  set  the  women 
folks  against  him  so  they  won't  feed  him.  See  that  big 
bird  up  there  in  the  sky.  It's  an  eagle.  Now  it's  mak- 
ing a  turn,  and  the  sun  shines  on  its  bald  head  and  white 
tail  feathers.  They  build  their  nests  here  among  the 
rocks.  It's  dangerous  to  meddle  with  their  nests. 
They'll  pick  and  bite  and  claw  savage.  I've  seen 
seven  or  eight  of  them  at  once  up  on  Timp  Moun- 
tain." 

Presently  the  task  of  skinning  the  coon  was  finished, 
and  after  the  skin  had  been  tacked  up  on  the  shed 
Luther  and  Mr.  Stotten  started  off  to  their  work  some- 
where in  the  woods.  Later  in  the  day  I  retraced  my 
steps  to  the  valley  depths  of  the  Hudson.  A  three 
mile  walk  from  the  upland  glen  where  I  had  been  stop- 
ping took  me  to  the  railroad  station,  and  then  the 
metropolis  was  scarcely  more  than  an  hour's  journey 
distant.  The  wonder  was  that  so  much  of  the  wild  and 
primitive  should  survive  close  beside  the  busy  valley 
thoroughfares,  and  at  such  a  slight  remove  from  one 
of  the  most  populous  centers  of  civilization. 


8o      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

NOTE. — The  Highlands  of  the  Hudson,  a  continuation  of  the 
Appalachian  Blue  Ridge,  lift  some  of  their  mightiest  heights  di- 
rectly beside  the  spacious  and  stately  Hudson.  A  particularly  easy 
and  inexpensive  way  to  make  a  general  acquaintance  with  them 
and  the  river  is  to  go  on  a  day  steamer  from  New  York  to  Albany. 
The  trip  lasts  from  about  9  in  the  morning  to  6  in  the  evening.  The 
boats  are  magnificent  in  size  and  equipment,  and  the  largest  one 
will  carry  5,000  passengers.  The  most  interesting  sights  and  points 
of  interest  along  the  river  are  the  turretted  peninsula  of  New  York; 
the  Palisades;  the  broad  expanse  of  the  Tappan  Zee;  the  vicinity 
of  Tarrytown,  just  below  which  place  is  Sunnyside,  the  quietly 
charming  home  of  Washington  Irving,  while  just  above  is  the  hamlet 
he  made  famous  in  his  "Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow;"  Stony  Point, 
the  scene  of  "Mad"  Anthony  Wayne's  notable  exploit  in  capturing 
the  stronghold  from  the  British  in  1779;  West  Point;  and  the 
Mountains  of  the  Highlands  ending  with  Storm  King. 

The  river  is  not  especially  picturesque  beyond  Poughkeepsie,  and 
many  persons  prefer  to  disembark  there.  On  the  outskirts  of  the 
city  is  Vassar  College. 

The  valley  roads  are  macadam  for  the  most  part  and  offer  many 
attractions  for  the  motorist.  A  good  opportunity  to  view  the  moun- 
tains from  a  height  is  afforded  by  the  Dunderberg  which  is  ascended 
by  a  spiral  railway  from  Jones  Point.  The  summit  is  an  amuse- 
ment resort. 

For  more  about  the  characteristics  and  history  of  the  valley  see 
Johnson's  "Picturesque  Hudson." 


IV 


THE    LAND    OF    OIL 

THE  existence  of  mineral  oil  in  the  valley  of  Oil 
Creek  in  northwestern  Pennsylvania  was  known 
to    the    Indians    from    time    immemorial.     The 
Senecas,  who  inhabited  the  region  in  the  pioneer  days 
of  the  white  men,  resorted  thither  at  stated  seasons  to 
gather  the  oil  for  medical  purposes;    and  in  connection 
with  procuring  it  there  were  certain  ceremonies  ending 
with  setting  fire  to  the  oil  that  gathered  on  the  surface 
of  the  pools,  and  a  dance  around  the  flames. 

The  early  settlers  adopted  the  Indian  practice  of 
using  the  oil  as  a  medicine,  and  they  had  a  good  deal  of 
confidence  in  its  efficacy  as  a  cure  for  rheumatism.  It 
was  even  put  on  the  market  and  attained  a  large  sale 
in  the  drugstores  under  the  name  of  "Seneca  Oil." 

At  length  some  New  York  men  conceived  the  idea 
that  the  oil  had  value  as  an  illuminant,  and  that  it  might 
be  obtained  in  larger  quantities.  They  bought  a 
seventy-five  acre  tract  of  land  near  Titusville,  for  which 
they  paid  five  thousand  dollars.  It  was  practically 
worthless  except  for  its  oil  possibilities.  The  new 
owners  hired  a  man  to  trench  the  land  and  to  pump  the 
surface  oil  into  vats  by  means  of  apparatus  attached 
to  that  of  an  adjacent  sawmill,  but  they  gave  most  of 


82      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

their  attention  to  selling  stock.  Several  years  passed, 
and  the  stockholders  became  dissatisfied.  Some  of 
them  arranged  to  have  one  of  their  number,  Col.  E.  L. 
Drake,  at  that  time  a  conductor  on  the  New  Haven 
railroad,  go  to  Titusville  and  take  charge  of  operations 
on  their  land.  He  attempted  to  find  oil  by  boring,  and 
after  prolonged  and  discouraging  labor  he  tapped  an 
underground  reservoir  of  the  oil,  in  August,  1859,  and 
thus  started  a  vast  industry  which  made  the  valley  of 
Oil  Creek  the  scene  of  one  of  the  wildest  bonanza  ex- 
citements of  modern  times. 

Everyone  who  owned  land  near  the  Drake  well 
either  sunk  wells  or  leased  the  right  to  others.  The 
uncertainties  of  the  enterprise  were,  however,  very 
great.  By  far  the  larger  portion  of  the  wells  obtained 
no  oil  at  all,  or  in  unrenumerative  quantities,  but  there 
were  a  considerable  number  of  the  early  wells  that 
pumped  from  five  to  twenty  barrels  a  day.  In  June, 
1 86 1,  a  flowing  well  was  discovered  on  the  property  of 
a  man  named  Funk,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  every- 
one the  oil  came  forth  at  the  daily  rate  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  barrels.  Many  spoke  of  the  Funk  well  as  an 
Oil  Creek  humbug,  and  they  looked  day  after  day  to 
see  the  stream  stop,  yet  the  flow  continued  with  little 
variation  for  fifteen  months.  Such  a  prodigal  supply  of 
grease  upset  all  calculations.  The  public  were  sus- 
picious of  the  new  illuminant  and  thought  it  dangerous; 
so  the  demand  for  it  was  as  yet  small,  and  this  Funk 
well  and  other  flowing  wells  that  were  soon  discovered 


The  Land  of  Oil  83 

glutted  the  market.  For  a  time  the  pumping  wells  were 
nearly  all  abandoned.  The  price  of  oil  fell  as  low  as 
ten  cents  a  barrel,  and  great  quantities  ran  to  waste 
for  want  of  any  adequate  way  of  storing  it. 

In  summer  most  of  the  oil  was  shipped  down  the 
creek  on  flatboats,  and  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek, 
eighteen  miles  from  Titusville,  the  oil  barrels  were 
transferred  to  larger  b6ats  and  went  on  down  the  Alle- 
ghany.  When  there  were  not  enough  boats  the  oil 
barrels  were  lashed  together  in  rafts  for  the  creek  trip, 
and  might  even  continue  in  that  way  to  Pittsburg. 
The  creek  boats  were  towed  back  upstream  by  horses. 

Not  far  below  Titusville  was  a  dam  that  furnished 
power  for  a  lumber  mill.  In  dry  weather  the  creek  was 
too  shallow  for  navigation,  and  the  water  held  back  by 
the  dam  was  utilized  for  creating  "pond-freshets." 
Once  or  twice  a  week  several  hundred  boats,  some  of 
them  square-ended  scows,  and  others  pointed  and 
slim,  were  loaded  with  oil,  below  the  dam,  and  then  the 
sudden  release  of  the  water  through  floodgates  created 
a  sufficient  flow  to  carry  the  fleet  along  down  to  the 
Alleghany.  Often  a  boat  that  cast  loose  too  hastily 
would  ground  in  the  shallows,  and  the  following  boats, 
hurried  on  by  the  rush  of  the  current,  would  batter  the 
stranded  boat  into  kindling  wood,  and  there  might 
result  a  general  jam  with  much  damage  to  vessels  and 
a  considerable  loss  of  oil. 

The  nearest  railroad  shipping  points  were  twenty- 
five  miles  away,  and  great  quantities  of  oil  were  carted 


84      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

thither,  especially  in  winter  when  the  creek  was  not 
available.  It  was  not  an  uncommon  sight  to  see  a  solid 
line  of  teams  a  mile  or  more  in  length  on  the  highways 
leading  to  the  railroads.  Rubber  boots  and  flannel 
shirts  were  recognized  necessities  in  the  attire  of  the 
teamsters,  who  were  as  rough  and  ready  in  their  man- 
ners as  in  their  clothing.  They  were  big-hearted, 
honest,  hard-working  fellows,  skilled  in  profanity  and 
the  vigorous  use  of  the  whip.  Some  earned  ten  dollars 
or  more  daily.  Yet  however  much  they  earned  they 
were  apt  to  spend  it  all  in  revelry  on  Saturday  night, 
heedless  of  anything  but  present  pleasure. 

One  afternoon,  in  May,  1863,  a  spouting  well  was 
struck  that  proved  the  most  fabulous  money-maker 
the  region  produced.  A  column  of  water  and  oil  rose 
into  the  air  a  hundred  feet  enveloping  the  derrick  and 
near  trees.  The  gas  roared  and  the  ground  quaked, 
and  the  amount  of  oil  ejected  at  first  amounted  to  three 
thousand  barrels  a  day. 

The  effect  of  this  and  the  previous  excitements  was 
to  throng  the  entire  valley  with  a  restless,  ambitious 
population,  and  naturally  among  those  who  came  were 
hundreds  of  loafers  and  numerous  gamblers  and  other 
persons  of  evil  intent.  Within  the  next  few  years  land 
anywhere  near  the  producing  territory  soared  to  fabu- 
lous prices,  and  the  region  swarmed  with  a  hungry 
horde  of  Eastern  capitalists.  A  new  town  named 
Pithole  grew  in  four  month's  time  to  a  place  of  ten 
thousand  people.  During  this  period  any  kind  of  a 


The  Land  of  Oil  85 

shelter  was  a  luxury,  and  a  stranger  on  his  first  night 
there  was  lucky  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  the  shavings 
under  a  carpenter's  workbench.  At  the  hastily  im- 
provised restaurants  long  lines  of  men  waited  their 
turn  to  pay  twenty-five  cents  for  a  thin  sandwich  and 
a  small  plate  of  beans,  and  men  of  wealth  elbowed 
greasy  drillers  and  grimy  teamsters  at  the  lunch  boards. 
A  one  course  dinner  without  tea  or  coffee  cost  one 
dollar.  Water  to  supply  the  hotels  and  boarding- 
sheds  had  to  be  hauled,  and  this  water  often  commanded 
a  better  price  per  barrel  than  the  oil.  The  place  reached 
the  summit  of  its  glory  in  1866.  Then  the  oil  pool, 
which  was  about  one  mile  broad  by  two  long,  showed 
signs  of  exhaustion,  and  the  decline  of  the  magic  city 
was  rapid.  In  a  single  year  it  had  grown  from  a  quiet 
nook  of  five  farms  to  a  place  of  twenty  thousand  people. 
A  half  dozen  years  later  there  were  as  few  inhabitants 
as  at  the  beginning,  and  now,  the  once  populous  streets 
are  plowed  fields  or  the  browsing  ground  for  cattle. 

The  history  of  the  deserted  valley  of  Pithole  Creek 
is  similar  to  that  of  various  other  places  in  the  region. 
Among  these  I  might  mention  Red  Hot,  which  for  a 
time  was  like  its  name,  but  soon  cooled  off  and  died  a 
natural  death  and  left  no  trace  behind;  and  there  was 
Shamburg,  which  actually  is  a  sham  burg  now,  but 
was  by  no  means  such  in  the  boom  days. 

My  own  acquaintance  with  the  oilfield  wells  that 
are  still  producing  began  on  the  southern  outskirts  of 
Titusville.  One  of  them  had  been  pumping  for  more 


86      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

than  forty  years.  They  were  in  irregular  groups,  each 
group  with  its  pumping  station,  and  all  connected  by 
pipes  which  delivered  the  oil  to  a  refinery.  Four-posted 
derricks  with  much  crisscrossing  of  braces  are  over  the 
older  wells,  but  the  increasing  expense  of  lumber  has 
led  to  making  three  long  poles,  set  up  to  form  a  tripod, 
serve  instead.  Often  these  poles  are  transferred  from 
well  to  well  as  new  borings  are  made,  and  at  the  com- 
pleted wells  there  perhaps  will  be  only  an  inconspicu- 
ous pump  and  a  small  storage  tank.  From  each  power 
house  there  radiate  to  the  scattered  wells  slender  lines 
of  rods  suspended  by  ropes  from  posts  four  or  five  feet 
high.  These  sway  steadily  back  and  forth  and  keep 
the  pumps  working.  The  power  houses  are  rude 
shanties  with  a  gas  engine  inside.  Usually  a  single  man 
takes  care  of  the  engine,  and  often  he  is  not  at  the 
building  much  of  the  time,  and  the  shanty  is  left  locked 
with  the  engine  still  going.  In  that  case  the  steam 
exhaust  is  likely  to  be  equipped  with  a  whistle  that 
keeps  up  an  intermittent  tooting.  The  cessation  of 
the  toots  is  a  prompt  warning  that  something  is  wrong. 
These  vocal  engines  are  known  as  "barkers." 

Gas  drawn  from  the  same  source  as  the  oil  furnishes 
the  fuel  for  the  engines,  and  if  there  is  more  than  is 
needed  it  is  allowed  to  escape  through  a  pipe  and  burn. 
You  see  these  torches  flaring  unceasingly  both  day  and 
night.  When  darkness  shrouds  the  landscape  their 
flickering  glare  in  the  lonely  fields  and  on  the  wooded 
slopes  is  quite  mysterious. 


An  old-time  well  that  is  still  pumped 


The  Land  of  Oil  87 

Were  it  not  that  the  fuel  is  costless,  this  pioneer  oil- 
field would  perhaps  be  wholly  abandoned,  for  the 
average  yield  per  well  is  decidely  less  than  a  barrel  a 
day.  "We  think  they're  dandy  wells  if  they  yield  two 
or  three  barrels,"  one  of  the  engine  attendants  said, 
"and  we  pump  for  an  eighth  of  a  barrel.  Some  of  the 
wells  are  pumped  only  every  other  day,  and  maybe 
then  for  no  more  than  an  hour  or  two.  We  get  to  know 
about  how  long  it  takes  to  pump  up  what  has  gathered, 
and  then  we  turn  off  the  power  to  let  more  oil  drain 
into  the  sand  down  below.  Water  seeps  in  with  the 
oil — sometimes  a  great  deal  of  it.  I've  pumped  over 
two  hundred  barrels  of  water  to  get  one  of  oil  from  a 
well." 

I  visited  the  spot  where  the  original  Drake  well  was 
sunk.  It  is  a  short  walk  aside  from  the  highway  amid 
the  weeds  and  brush,  and  you  find  there  only  a  water- 
hole  into  which  some  one  has  thrust  endways  a  large 
piece  of  iron  pipe.  Roundabout  are  swampy  farmlands, 
and  at  a  little  remove,  on  either  hand,  rise  rugged 
heights  whose  sides  are  thinly  covered  with  forest. 
Near  by  I  observed  what  seemed  to  be  an  abandoned 
railroad  track,  but  a  man  whom  I  met  informed  me 
that  it  was  still  in  use.  "The  Pennsylvania  Railroad 
has  a  line  on  the  other  side  of  the  crick,"  he  said,  "and 
it  does  n't  propose  to  let  any  rival  build  on  this  side. 
It's  got  a  ninety-nine  year  lease  of  the  right  of  way  here, 
but  the  lease  has  in  it  some  provision  compelling  the 
running  of  trains.  So  in  order  to  technically  keep 


88      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

within  the  law  a  single  train  is  run  over  the  track  each 
year.  They  have  to  cross  the  crick  just  above,  and  as 
a  permanent  bridge  would  be  expensive  they  put  up  a 
slight  affair  that  they  take  away  after  the  train  has 
made  its  journey,  for  if  they  did  not  remove  the  bridge 
it  would  be  destroyed  by  the  ice  freshets.  All  there  is 
to  the  train  is  a  little  dinkey  engine  and  one  car.  They 
could  n't  use  a  big  engine.  It  would  flatten  the  tracks 
right  out.  Even  as  things  are,  the  weight  makes  the 
water  squush  out  of  the  rotten  ties  as  the  train  goes  along. 
Oh!  they  have  an  awful  time,  and  usually  land  in  the 
ditch.  They  run  out  here  about  six  miles.  It's  a  free 
picnic,  and  they  always  manage  to  have  a  few  passen- 
gers on  board.  One  of  our  legislators  tried  to  pass  a 
law  annulling  such  fake  leases;  but  the  Pennsylvania 
Railroad  owns  the  state,  and  he  got  notice  to  keep  his 
hands  off,  and  his  efforts  amounted  to  nothing." 

I  went  on  southward  following  a  winding  way  up 
and  down  interminable  hills.  It  was  a  rather  lonely 
farming  country.  The  houses  were  small,  the  out- 
buildings shabby,  and  there  was  much  litter  about 
them.  Sometimes  an  oil  well  or  two  would  be  right 
in  the  dooryard,  and  I  was  rarely  out  of  sight  of  the 
derricks,  or  beyond  the  sound  of  the  pumping  opera- 
tions, and  nearly  always  there  was  the  odor  of  oil  in 
the  air.  But  it  was  a  beautiful  day  with  drifting  clouds 
overhead  that  now  gloomed  the  landscape  with  their 
shadows,  and  then  allowed  a  burst  of  sunshine  to  play 
over  the  green,  new-seeded  grainfields,  and  the  browner 


The  Land  of  Oil  89 

grass  and  cornlands,  and  the  patches  of  woodland  with 
their  half  bare  branches  still  adorned  in  part  by  clinging 
leaves  of  many  varied  hues. 

At  noon  I  visited  a  little  while  with  two  men  who 
were  sitting  on  a  bank  eating  their  lunch  in  a  roadside 
nook  among  the  ruddy-foliaged  oaks.  Near  by  were 
two  stout  spans  of  horses  munching  a  feed  of  oats  that 
had  been  poured  down  on  the  mossy  turf,  and  beside 
the  highway  were  two  loaded  wagons.  The  men  were 
drillers  on  their  way  to  a  neighboring  village  where 
they  were  to  put  down  a  well.  They  mentioned  that 
the  last  well  they  drilled  was  somewhat  over  a  thousand 
feet  deep,  and  it  took  them  eight  days  to  sink  it.  Drill- 
ing was  their  business,  and  they  kept  at  it,  if  they  had 
jobs,  all  the  year  through  except  in  winter.  They  ex- 
plained that  there  were  four  different  streaks  of  oil- 
bearing  sand  down  below,  but  none  of  them  yielded 
very  generously  now.  "We  don't  get  half  what  we 
did  ten  years  ago,"  they  said,  "and  the  wells  are  getting 
lighter  all  the  time." 

At  length  I  came  to  the  village  of  Petroleum  Center. 
It  occupies  a  turn  of  the  Oil  Creek  valley  where  the 
abrupt  environing  hills  recede  somewhat  and  leave  a 
fairly  level  stretch  of  lowland.  Once  a  mushroom  city 
had  grown  here  almost  in  a  night.  Now  only  the  ghost 
of  it  was  left.  The  stream  flows  on  as  of  yore,  and  the 
unchanging  hills  continue  to  look  down  on  the  scene 
through  winter  snows  and  summer  heats.  Only  man 
and  his  works  seem  puny  and  ephemeral.  One  of  my 


90      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

chance  acquaintances  in  the  place  called  my  attention 
to  the  fact  that  even  the  hills  and  the  stream  have  not 
always  presented  the  same  appearance.  Out  of  the 
low  ground  at  the  bend  of  the  creek  rises  a  round,  steep 
hill.  "We  call  that  the  Hogback,"  the  man  said.  "It 
looks  curious,  don't  it,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  valley. 
I  used  to  think  that  God  made  the  world  just  as  we  see 
it  but  water  has  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  shaping 
things,  and  that  accounts  for  the  Hogback.  Once  the 
stream  must  have  run  in  behind  that  hill  as  well  as  on 
this  side  of  it  and  worn  the  land  down." 

Among  the  few  scattered  village  structures  that  have 
survived  the  boom  period  the  only  substantial  one  was 
a  brick  store  that  was  originally  a  bank.  Even  that 
had  a  dejected  air,  many  of  its  windows  were  broken, 
and  there  was  no  display  of  goods  behind  the  dusty, 
fly-specked  panes  at  the  front  of  the  store.  The  in- 
terior was  equally  unattractive.  It  was  crowded  and 
dingy.  In  one  corner  were  mail  boxes,  and  the  con- 
tents of  the  boxes  looked  faded  and  musty  as  if  the 
mail  never  was  called  for. 

Most  of  the  adjacent  buildings  were  deserted  and 
ruinous,  and  the  whole  aspect  of  the  place  conveyed  a 
sense  of  dilapidation  and  hopelessness.  I  wanted  to 
talk  with  someone  who  knew  personally  the  city  that 
had  been,  and  my  quest  led  me  to  a  little  house  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  village.  I  was  ushered  into  a  tidy 
sitting  room  where  I  was  somewhat  abashed  to  find 
myself  in  the  midst  of  what  seemed  to  be  a  ladies' 


Oil  Creek  at  Petroleum  Center 


The  Land  of  Oil  91 

sewing-circle.  But  when  I  hinted  that  I  was  intruding 
on  a  public  occasion  they  said  they  were  simply  old 
friends  who  had  got  together  to  while  away  the  after- 
noon visiting.  There  were  half  a  dozen  of  them, 
mostly  elderly,  and  all  long-time  residents  of  the  region 
who  plainly  enjoyed  recalling  the  exciting  past;  but 
my  chief  informant  was  the  spectacled,  white-haired 
lady  of  the  house. 

"Everybody  in  the  country  seemed  to  be  migrating 
to  Oil  Creek  when  I  come,"  she  said.  "At  first  my 
husband  and  I  lived  in  a  boarding-house  at  Funkville 
just  above  here.  It  was  a  pretty  good-sized  building — 
two  and  a  half  stories — but  very  hastily  and  rudely 
built,  without  lath  or  plaster,  and  yet  they  charged 
eight  dollars  a  week  for  board.  Our  chamber  was  the 
only  one  in  the  house  that  had  wallpaper.  It  was  better 
than  the  others,  too,  because  there  was  a  boughten  bed- 
room set  in  it.  A  party  that  had  occupied  it  before  we 
did  brought  the  set  with  'em,  but  got  hard  up,  and  the 
set  went  toward  paying  the  board  bill.  The  walls  of 
the  dining-room  were  papered  with  newspapers.  The 
big  dining-table,  around  which  twenty-five  or  thirty 
persons  could  gather  comfortably,  was  so  roughly  made 
it  looked  as  if  it  had  been  whittled  out,  pretty  near. 
Often  the  boys  would  have  in  the  girls  of  a  night  and 
dance  in  the  dining-room.  Then  the  big  table  would 
have  to  be  taken  out.  Up  in  the  attic  were  nine  home- 
made, corded,  wooden  beds  with  low  bedposts  and 
little  small  headboards.  They  had  straw  mattresses 


92      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

on  'em,  and  every  day  the  servant  girl  would  stir  up 
the  straw  to  make  'em  level. 

"The  way  that  boarding-house  was  built  and  fur- 
nished was  a  fair  sample  of  what  you'd  find  then  all 
through  the  valley.  We  had  just  shanty  houses  that 
were  n't  put  up  for  to  stay.  If  the  oil  failed  in  one 
place  a  man  could  take  his  worldly  goods,  house  and 
all,  and  go  somewhere  else.  I  remember  one  house 
here  that  was  taken  down  in  the  morning  and  carted 
eight  or  ten  miles,  and  then  it  was  set  up  and  the  owner 
slept  in  it  that  night. 

"We  had  ten  thousand  people  in  Petroleum  Center 
one  while.  Now  I  doubt  if  there's  a  hundred.  It's  a 
lovely  place,  ain't  it!  I  think  a  person  would  have  to 
put  on  his  spectacles  to  find  it  as  he  went  past  on  the 
train.  When  it  was  largest  it  was  full  of  hotels,  res- 
taurants, and  saloons,  and  was  about  as  tough  a  place 
as  was  ever  heard  of.  Derricks,  buildings,  and  roads 
was  all  jumbled  together  hit  or  miss.  We  used  to  have 
three  churches.  They  done  well,  and  the  Catholic 
priest  and  the  two  ministers  all  lived  here,  and  crowds 
of  people  attended  the  services.  Two  of  the  buildings 
still  stand,  but  it's  hard  work  to  get  any  congregation 
together  in  either  of  'em.  There's  just  a  handful  gather 
every  other  week  when  the  priest  comes;  and  no  regu- 
lar preaching  service  is  held  in  the  other  church,  but 
we  have  Sunday-school.  A  few  years  ago  some  Episco- 
pal lay-workers  volunteered  to  try  to  keep  things  going, 
and  quite  a  nice  little  crowd  came  out  off  and  on  for  a 


The  Land  of  Oil  93 

while.  But  the  workers  could  n't  get  enough  to  pay 
expenses,  and  they  threw  up  the  job.  Some  of  the 
people  was  n't  able  to  pay,  and  some  would  n't.  Just 
now  two  revivalists  are  trying  to  have  meetings  every 
night,  but  the  attendance  is  slim.  They  had  only 
three  grown  persons  and  a  few  children  the  first  night. 
People  ain't  interested,  and  they  simply  won't  go." 

My  hostess  paused  while  she  went  to  a  small  stove 
that  was  in  the  room  and  adjusted  a  stopcock  at  one 
side.  "It's  getting  toward  evening,"  she  said,  "and 
the  air  is  growing  cooler.  I  thought  I'd  turn  on  a  little 
more  gas.  In  the  early  years  that  I  was  here  soft  coal 
was  our  fuel,  and  I'd  have  liked  it  very  well  if  it  had  n't 
burnt  out  our  chimleys  so  quick  and  been  so  dirty. 
If  you  took  off  a  stove  lid  to  have  your  griddle  right 
over  the  flames,  the  bottom  of  the  griddle  would  get 
all  coated  with  stringers  of  sut.  I'd  feel  discouraged, 
too,  when  I  hung  out  my  washing  and  the  clothes  got 
covered  with  little  smut  balls.  That  would  happen  in 
moist  weather — on  days,  you  know,  when  the  smoke 
would  blow  down  instead  of  going  up.  Now  we  have 
gas  piped  to  our  houses  to  furnish  all  the  heat  and  light. 
It  costs  us  twenty-eight  cents  a  thousand.  Besides 
this  little  stove  we  have  a  range  in  the  kitchen.  Our 
gas  bill  last  month  was  a  dollar-twelve,  and  it  was  less 
than  three  dollars  the  coldest  month  last  winter.  I 
think  it  would  be  awful  to  have  a  coal  or  wood  stove 
with  all  the  ashes  and  dirt. 

"Lots  of  gas  used  to  be  wasted.     I  know  that  near 


94      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

one  of  the  refineries  there  was  a  good-sized  pipe  sticking 
up  from  which  the  gas  flamed  night  and  day  all  the 
year  around,  and  there  was  a  place  in  winter  as  large 
as  a  big  room  where  the  grass  grew  green  with  the 
snowbanks  all  about." 

Another  person  whose  reminiscenses  particularly 
interested  me  was  a  Titusville  merchant  who  had  aided 
in  financing  the  first  well,  and  without  whose  help  the 
well  might  have  been  a  failure.  "Drake  was  a  jovial, 
kind-hearted,  polished  gentleman,"  he  said.  "It  was 
his  habit  to  wear  a  silk  hat  and  a  white  necktie,  and  he 
was  quite  distinguished  looking.  He  hired  two  or  three 
men  and  set  'em  to  digging  with  the  hope  that  a  good 
deep  hole  would  strike  a  plentiful  supply  of  oil.  As 
they  dug  they  put  a  cribbing  of  logs  around  the  sides  of 
the  hole  to  keep  the  earth  from  caving  in.  Soon  so 
much  water  soaked  in  that  it  put  a  stop  to  digging. 
Then  they  rigged  up  a  pump,  but  the  water  came  in  as 
fast  as  they  could  pump  it  out,  and  presently  Drake 
said:  'This  won't  do.  We're  pumping  all  Oil  Creek 
here.' 

"He  thought  the  matter  over  and  got  the  idea  of 
drilling.  To  drill  through  rock  would  n't  have  been 
very  difficult,  but  at  that  spot  was  a  lot  of  mud  and 
water  and  earth  that  would  have  filled  the  drill  hole 
right  up.  He  had  a  difficult  task.  To  set  a  man  to  get 
at  a  supply  of  underground  oil  at  that  time  was  like 
blindfolding  him  and  telling  him  to  do  something  that 
had  never  been  heard  of  before.  But  he  got  some  four 


The  Land  of  Oil  95 

inch  pipe  which  he  rudely  jointed  together,  and  that 
served  to  carry  him  through  the  soft  upper  material 
to  the  rock.  It  was  slow,  discouraging  work,  and  he 
worried  a  great  deal  and  evidently  was  under  a  great 
mental  strain.  I've  heard  him  say  many  times,  while 
he  was  putting  that  well  down,  that  he  wished  he'd 
gone  to  the  penitentiary  instead  of  coming  here.  At 
length  he  was  hard  up  for  money,  and  he  asked  me  to 
indorse  his  note  for  five  hundred  dollars.  I  had  con- 
fidence in  him  as  a  man,  and  I  did  as  he  requested. 
He  did  n't  have  much  to  say  about  his  drilling  enter- 
prise, and  let  it  be  inferred  that  he  was  after  salt.  The 
people  would  have  thought  he  was  a  crazy  fool  if  he'd 
said  he  was  boring  for  oil. 

"The  actual  labor  of  drilling  was  done  by  Uncle 
Billy  Smith,  assisted  by  his  son.  Uncle  Billy  was  a 
mechanic  accustomed  to  salt  boring,  but  things  went 
slowly.  Drake  had  been  here  sixteen  months  and  was 
about  to  go  back  home  and  apply  for  his  old  position 
on  the  railroad  when  they  struck  oil  at  a  depth  of 
seventy  feet.  That  was  the  shallowest  successful  well 
ever  drilled  in  this  oil  field.  If  he'd  had  to  go  any  deeper 
he'd  have  abandoned  the  enterprise.  Either  fortune 
or  Providence  favored  him.  The  oil  rose  within  five 
inches  of  the  surface.  When  pumped,  it  yielded  four 
hundred  barrels  a  day.  Drake  was  a  big  man  then. 
'I've  got  any  amount  of  friends  now,'  he  said  when  he 
came  into  the  store  to  pay  his  account. 

"He  might  have  leased  land  up  and  down  the  valley 


96      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

and  got  rich;  but  he  was  n't  what  you'd  call  a  good 
business  man,  looking  out  for  the  dollars.  He  liked 
his  ease  too  well.  Besides,  he  thought  he  had  all  the 
oil  there  was  right  at  that  one  place.  For  a  while  he 
set  down  here  and  became  a  justice  of  the  peace.  His 
friends  let  him  into  some  of  the  oil  companies,  but  he 
never  made  much.  A  place  he  bought  here  in  town 
proved  to  be  his  best  investment.  Property  advanced 
very  rapidly  in  price  on  account  of  the  oil  excitement, 
and  he  sold  out  at  a  profit  of  twenty  thousand  dollars. 
Then  he  thought  he  was  rich,  and  he  went  to  New 
York  and  lost  every  cent  within  a  few  months.  Finally 
the  Pennsylvania  legislature  was  induced  to  grant  him 
a  pension,  and  his  wife  still  draws  it. 

"We  all  begun  to  put  down  wells  after  Drake  made 
his  strike,  and  sometimes  we'd  have  only  a  wet  hole, 
and  be  flooded  out,  and  sometimes  a  dry  hole  with 
never  a  smell  of  oil  in  it.  But  enough  good  wells  were 
found  to  keep  up  the  excitement.  There  were  fellows 
who  did  first-rate  gathering  up  territory  here  and  taking 
it  to  New  York  to  sell.  I  sold  a  fifty-acre  tract  of 
swamp  myself  there.  My  customers  were  important 
New  York  bankers.  They  figured  out  so  many  wells 
to  an  acre  and  were  convinced  there  was  a  magnificent 
future  in  that  piece  of  swamp.  It  could  have  been 
bought  for  twenty-five  dollars  before  the  boom.  They 
paid  me  a  hundred  thousand  for  it,  and  they  never  got 
any  oil  at  all  from  the  property.  Another  deal  that  I 
helped  put  through  was  one  involving  a  quarter  of  a 


The  Land  of  Oil  97 

million  dollars,  and  I  was  given  five  thousand  dollars 
worth  of  stock  for  my  services.  Unluckily,  I  did  n't 
get  a  chance  to  unload  before  the  bubble  burst,  and 
my  stock  was  practically  worthless." 

I  wish  to  quote  one  other  man.  His  memory  covered 
the  entire  period  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  oil  industry 
in  the  region.  He  was  a  grizzled,  bushy-browed  man, 
still  alert  of  mind  and  vigorous  in  body,  but  age  was 
beginning  to  tell  on  him,  and  his  hands  were  contorted 
with  rheumatism. 

"According  to  a  record  in  my  mother's  old  Bible," 
he  said,  "I  discovered  America  here  in  Titusville  in 
1840.  So  I  was  nineteen  when  Drake  struck  oil.  This 
was  a  lumbering  hamlet  then,  and  there  were  two  good- 
sized  sawmills  here.  The  logs  were  run  down  the  cricks 
to  'em,  and  the  sawed  lumber  was  made  into  small 
rafts.  After  the  rafts  reached  the  Alleghany  they  were 
coupled  up  into  river  fleets  and  floated  on  down  to 
Pittsburg.  The  country  was  heavily  wooded,  princi- 
pally with  pine.  It  had  not  been  cleared  to  any  extent, 
and  the  mills  run  their  business  till  up  along  pretty 
near  1870.  Then  the  pine  timber  was  about  exhausted. 
But  new  firms  sprung  up  later  that  gathered  up  the 
remnants  in  our  woodlands,  and  those  remnants  were 
worth  more,  at  the  higher  prices  that  prevailed,  than 
the  original  timber. 

"The  sawmills  employed  all  the  laboring  men  in 
this  region  when  I  was  a  boy.  They  paid  them  with 
orders  on  the  companies'  stores.  We  saw  very  little 


98      Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

money.  If  a  man  had  a  quarter  it  was  got  away  from 
him  in  about  fifteen  minutes.  But  in  the  spring,  after 
the  mills  sold  their  lumber,  they  distributed  enough 
cash  so  their  workmen  could  pay  their  taxes.  Few 
people  raised  any  crops  except  a  little  buckwheat  and 
a  small  patch  of  potatoes.  The  families  along  the  creek 
led  a  rough  life,  and  two  thirds  of  their  houses  were  logs. 
In  winter  they'd  make  a  few  shingles,  and  in  spring 
you'd  find  'em  hired  out  rafting  lumber  to  Pittsburg. 
Often  they  were  so  poor  they'd  return  on  foot. 

"We  probably  had  two  hundred  inhabitants  here 
in  Titusville.  There  were  a  couple  of  hotels  that  de- 
pended mostly  on  the  men  engaged  in  the  spring  lumber- 
ing operations,  and  there  were  three  stores.  My 
brother-in-law  kept  what  was  called  the  drugstore,  and 
the  principal  drug  was  whiskey.  Every  store  sold 
liquor  them  days.  They  did  n't  have  to  have  any 
licence. 

"Our  mail  come  and  went  twice  a  week.  Old  man 
Cook  was  the  carrier.  He  drove  an  ancient  sorrel 
horse  hitched  to  a  rattletrap  buggy.  When  it  suited 
him  to  get  here  with  the  mail  on  the  days  it  was  due 
he  got  here.  Otherwise  he  did  n't,  and  he  considered 
that  was  no  one's  affair  but  his  own.  There  was  n't 
much  mail  anyway,  and  it  did  n't  matter.  Often  he 
stopped  for  the  night  with  an  old  lady  who  lived  three 
miles  out.  Sometimes  we  boys  would  go  there  and 
steal  the  mail  and  bring  it  to  town. 

"When  Drake  struck  oil  three  of  us  young  fellows 


The  Land  of  Oil  99 

got  a. little  bit  excited  and  thought  we'd  try  our  luck. 
So  in  the  fall  of  that  same  year  we  leased  five  acres  of 
land  and  organized  "The  Great  American  Oil  Com- 
pany." The  justice  of  the  peace  charged  us  a  dollar 
for  drawing  up  the  lease,  and  as  we  only  had  sixty  cents 
he  had  to  trust  us  for  the  rest,  and  he  died  without 
getting  it.  We  kind  o'  forgot  that  debt,  and  he  never 
asked  us  for  the  balance  due  him.  The  owner  of  the 
land  was  a  poor — very  poor  farmer.  We  agreed  to 
give  him  five  dollars  a  month  and  an  eighth  of  the  oil. 
That  looked  big  to  him. 

"For  shelter  we  built  a  shanty  on  the  property,  and 
I  did  the  cooking.  We  started  work  in  a  very  modest 
way  by  digging  a  pit  on  our  land  near  the  crick.  At  a 
depth  of  four  feet  we  struck  bed  rock,  and  we  brought 
an  old  wooden  pump  from  town  and  rigged  it  up  to 
pump  the  water  out  of  the  hole.  A  little  oil  oozed  in 
with  the  water  and  formed  a  thin  skin  on  top.  By 
putting  half  a  woolen  blanket  down  flat  on  the  surface 
we  could  soak  up  the  oil,  and  then  we'd  wring  the 
blanket  out  into  a  pail.  Any  water  that  was  soaked 
up  with  the  oil  would  settle  to  the  bottom  of  the  pail, 
and  we'd  pour  off  the  top  into  a  barrel.  After  the  oil 
was  sopped  off  from  our  pool  we  pumped  the  water  out 
into  the  crick.  That  was  a  half-hour  job,  and  it  took 
the  pit  an  hour  to  fill  again.  We  got  about  eight  gal- 
lons of  oil  a  day,  and  when  we  filled  the  barrel  we  took 
it  to  a  grocer  here,  and  he  gave  us  thirty  dollars.  I 
thought  that  was  a  big  amount  of  money,  for  I'd  never 


ioo    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

had  two  dollars  in  my  life  before.  The  oil  was  bigh- 
grade,  and  was  sold  for  lubricating  and  medical  pur- 
poses. It  was  no  humbug  either  as  a  medicine.  I'd 
been  having  trouble  with  my  throat,  and  I  would  put 
a  leaf  down  on  that  crude  oil  and  lick  if  off.  That  cured 
my  throat  entirely,  and  I've  never  had  a  sore  throat 
since. 

"We  worked  that  blanket  process  for  three  or  four 
months.  Then  we  hired  a  couple  of  men  to  drill  a  well. 
They  brought  their  tools  on  their  backs  from  Oil  City. 
The  whole  outfit  did  n't  weigh  more'n  a  hundred 
pounds.  We  drilled  all  winter.  The  well  was  kicked 
down,  just  as  most  of  the  early  wells  were.  A  long 
slender  pole  was  adjusted  on  a  post,  and  the  drill  was 
suspended  from  the  small  end.  To  the  rope  that  held 
the  drill  a  leather  loop  was  attached  into  which  the 
driller  could  put  his  foot,  and  by  giving  a  downward 
kick  the  drill  would  be  brought  into  action.  Then  the 
spring  of  the  pole  raised  it  ready  for  another  kick. 

"After  getting  down  I  s'pose  a  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  we  struck  oil,  and  the  next  morning,  when  I  went 
to  the  well  and  stepped  inside  of  the  shack  we'd  built 
above  the  drill  hole,  my  foot  went  into  about  eight 
inches  of  oil  that  had  flowed  during  the  night.  It  was 
thick,  like  molasses,  and  we  scooped  up  half  a  dozen 
barrels  full.  But  when  we  went  to  pumping  we  got 
mostly  water,  and  it  did  n't  pay.  Then  we  put  down 
another  well,  and  that  was  no  go  either.  By  that  time 
I  did  n't  have  a  dollar,  and  I  was  ready  to  give  away 


The  Land  of  Oil  101 

my  third  interest  in  the  Great  American  Oil  Company. 
While  I  was  in  that  frame  of  mind  a  man  come  lookin' 
around  our  property,  and  after  some  talk  he  asked  me 
what  I'd  take  for  my  third.  At  first  I  was  going  to  say 
two  hundred  dollars,  but  on  second  thought  I  said  to 
myself,  'I'll  just  paralize  the  old  gent;'  and  I  told  him 
my  price  was  four  thousand  dollars. 

"I  expected  he'd  kick  me  into  the  crick,  but  he  closed 
the  bargain.  He  was  from  Jamestown,  New  York,  and 
two  other  men  there  were  interested  in  the  deal.  They 
paid  me  a  thousand  dollars  in  gold  and  gave  me  a  note 
for  the  balance. 

"It  seemed  to  me  I  was  rich  enough  to  be  satisfied 
for  a  while,  and  I  went  down  to  Pittsburg  and  attended 
school  for  a  year.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  started  for 
home.  On  the  way  I  stopped  one  evening  at  a  tavern 
where  the  local  school  board  was  having  a  meeting. 
A  teacher  had  recently  had  a  row  with  his  pupils  and 
they  had  thrown  him  out  and  would  n't  let  him  come 
back.  So  he  left,  and  the  authorities  were,  looking  for 
a  new  teacher.  I  told  'em  I'd  take  the  job  if  I  did  n't 
have  to  board  round.  The  president  of  the  committee 
said  I  could  make  my  home  with  him,  and  I  accepted 
his  proposal.  He  was  a  great  talker  and  wanted  me 
for  company. 

"The  schoolhouse  was  a  clapboarded  frame  building, 
but  the  clapboards  were  off  in  a  good  many  places,  and 
it  was  delapidated  and  pretty  near  ready  to  tumble 
down.  In  the  schoolroom  there  was  a  continuous 


IO2    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

bench  against  the  wall  around  three  sides,  with  a  desk 
in  front.  On  the  remaining  side  was  my  desk  on  a 
platform.  The  children  got  the  fuel  we  burned  from  a 
soft  coal  bank  back  of  the  building.  I  taught  reading, 
writing,  and  arithmetic,  and  it  was  a  part  of  my  work 
to  set  the  copies  for  the  children  in  their  writing-books, 
and  sharpen  their  goose-quill  pens.  It's  quite  an  art 
to  sharpen  a  goose-quill,  but  I  had  that  art  all  right. 
Books  were  n't  very  plentiful.  However,  most  of 
the  pupils  had  a  spelling-book. 

"I  didn't  like  teaching.  I'd  rather  do  anything 
else  than  teach  school.  The  committee  hired  me  for 
three  months,  and  I  was  glad  it  was  n't  for  a  longer 
period.  I  guess  the  pupils  were  gladder  than  I  was. 
One  little  fellow,  when  I  began  to  teach,  knew  all  his 
letters  but  four,  and  by  the  time  I  was  through  he'd 
forgotten  all  but  four. 

"Meanwhile  I  had  n't  got  my  money  on  that  three 
thousand  dollar  note.  The  property  had  proved  to 
be  valueless,  and  the  whole  thing  had  been  shut  down 
and  abandoned.  So  the  Jamestown  men  did  n't  want 
to  pay  me,  and  I  had  to  hire  a  lawyer  to  make  'em  see 
things  in  the  right  light.  Then  I  was  obliged  to  go  to 
Jamestown  to  get  my  money.  I  put  up  over  night 
there  at  a  hotel,  and  in  the  morning  went  to  a  bank, 
which  turned  over  the  cash  to  me.  It  was  in  bills  of 
small  denomination,  mostly  ones  and  twos,  and  they 
made  a  great  big  package  that  I  could  just  crowd  into 
my  inside  overcoat  pocket.  I  went  back  to  the  hotel, 


The  Land  of  Oil  103 

and  after  sitting  a  while  in  the  office  it  occurred  to  me 
that  I  would  go  out  for  a  walk  and  see  the  town.  The 
day  was  warm  and  I  took  off  my  overcoat  and  left  it 
hanging  in  the  hotel  office.  By  and  by  I  thought  of  my 
money  and  rushed  back  to  the  hotel  in  a  great  sweat. 
It  had  n't  been  stolen,  and  I  was  much  relieved.  Then 
I  put  the  overcoat  on  with  a  determination  to  wear  it 
the  rest  of  the  time.  I  even  wore  it  while  I  ate  my 
dinner. 

"  In  the  early  afternoon  I  took  a  train  for  home.  The 
train  did  n't  go  clear  through  and  I  had  to  change  and 
wait  at  a  junction.  Rather  than  loaf  around  the  station 
there  I  decided  to  go  for  a  stroll,  and  to  relieve  myself 
of  any  anxiety  I  had  the  express  agent  put  my  money  in 
his  safe.  When  I  came  back  to  the  station  my  train  was 
just  leaving,  and  I  ran  and  jumped  on  the  last  car. 
The  train  was  going  at  a  good  speed  before  I  thought 
of  my  money.  It  was  left  behind. 

"I  came  to  Titusville,  and  gave  the  express  agent 
here  an  order  so  the  money  could  be  forwarded.  Gen- 
erally the  train  ran  off  the  track  every  day  and  of  course 
there  had  to  be  a  smashup  when  my  money  was  com- 
ing. The  little  iron  express  box  lay  in  the  woods  two 
or  three  days,  but  it  got  here  in  the  end.  My  money 
was  turned  over  to  me  on  a  Saturday,  and  I  put  in  all 
the  next  day  counting  it.  Eleven  hundred  dollars  I 
spent  to  build  a  house.  It  was  a  good  investment.  A 
few  years  later  a  man  come  along  and  looked  at  the 
house  and  says,  'What'll  you  take  for  this  shebang?' 


104    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"'Six  thousand  dollars,'  I  said,  and  he  bought  it  at 
my  figure. 

"You  see  property  in  Titusville  and  the  entire  valley 
took  a  great  boom.  Such  crowds  rushed  in  here  that 
they  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  find  lodging  at  night. 
The  hotel-keepers  would  put  a  man  to  bed,  and  as  soon 
as  he  was  asleep  would  take  him  to  the  hall  and  hang 
him  on  a  hook  and  give  someone  else  the  bed.  To 
show  you  how  rapidly  population  could  grow  let  me 
tell  you  about  the  postmaster  at  Pithole.  He  began 
there  on  a  salary  of  twelve  dollars  and  a  half  a  year. 
He  was  expected  to  keep  track  of  the  stamps  sold,  and 
in  most  such  places  the  results  would  n't  warrant 
raising  the  pay  more  than  a  very  little,  but  in  less  than 
three  months  he  was  handling  such  an  amount  of  mail 
that  the  salary  was  raised  to  four  thousand  dollars, 
the  same  as  was  paid  at  Pittsburg. 

"As  for  the  oil  business  its  character  was  wildly 
speculative  for  a  long  time.  Many  came  here  rich  and 
went  away  poor,  and  very  few  came  poor  and  went 
away  rich.  Numerous  wildcat  wells  were  sunk  all 
around  the  region  that  cost  good  money  and  were  per- 
fectly worthless.  If  a  fellow  made  one  or  two  good 
investments  and  lucky  sales  he  began  to  think  he  was 
a  master  of  frenzied  finance,  and  he'd  most  likely  strike 
for  Wall  Street.  He  and  his  money  were  soon  parted 
there. 

"Loss  and  gain  in  large  amounts  were  a  commonplace 
here.  They  tell  of  two  strangers  who  occupied  the  same 


The  Land  of  Oil  105 

room  in  one  of  our  crowded  hotels.  One  of  'em  went 
to  bed,  but  he  could  n't  sleep  because  his  fellow-roomer 
persisted  in  walking  the  floor.  Finally  he  says,  "What's 
the  matter  with  you?' 

'"I've  given  a  note  for  five  thousand  dollars  that's 
due  tomorrow,'  was  the  reply. 

"Have  you  got  the  money  to  pay  it?'  says  the  first 
man. 

"'No,'  says  the  second  man. 

"'Then  you'd  better  come  to  bed',  says  the  first 
man,  'and  let  the  other  fellow  do  the  walking.' 

"Most  of  the  poor  backwoods  farmers  in  the  valley 
sold  their  land  at  fabulous  prices,  or  arranged  leases 
that  brought  great  and  sudden  wealth,  but  they 
could  n't  stand  the  change.  They  did  n't  know  how 
to  spend  the  money,  or  how  to  keep  it  intact.  Their 
sons  became  drunkards,  and  the  money  vanished  in 
dissipation,  extravagance,  and  poor  investments.  I 
know  of  only  one  land  owning  family  of  that  period  in 
this  valley  that  has  retained  the  money  which  came 
to  it." 

NOTE. — In  the  oil  region,  even  in  travelling  on  the  train,  one  sees 
numerous  oil-wells,  both  in  operation  and  deserted.  The  great 
center  of  the  Pennsylvania  oil  district  is  Oil  City,  and  the  traveller 
can  see  there  all  the  processes  of  procuring,  preparing,  and  shipping 
the  oil  and  its  products.  In  1892  a  large  oil  tank  in  the  city  caught 
fire,  and  the  burning  oil  overspread  the  water  of  the  creek  and  caused 
the  destruction  of  many  buildings  and  a  considerable  loss  of  life. 

It  is  estimated  that  from  the  valley  of  Oil  Creek,  north  of  Oil 


106    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

City,  oil  to  the  value  of  £200,000,000  was  taken  in  the  ten  busy  early 
years.  The  present  yield  is  insignificant.  Titusville  has  an  especial 
claim  on  the  sightseer  because  there  the  oil  was  discovered.  Inter- 
esting visits  may  be  made  to  the  hamlets  down  the  creek  which  grew 
with  magic  rapidity  into  populous  cities  in  the  boom  period,  and 
almost  as  suddenly  vanished. 

There  are  automobile  routes  from  Titusville  north  and  south  and 
east  and  west.  The  one  north  goes  to  Erie,  53  miles,  by  way  of 
Cambridge  Springs,  and  the  one  south  to  Pittsburg,  113  miles,  by 
way  of  Mercer.  The  roads  are  good  dirt  or  gravel. 

For  more  about  northwestern  Pennsylvania  see  "Highways  and 
Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes." 


AN    INDUSTRIAL    METROPOLIS 

PITTSBURG  was  discovered  by  George  Wash- 
ington. In  other  words,  Washington  first  sug- 
gested the  spot  as  a  desirable  site  for  a  fort, 
while  it  was  still  untamed  wilderness.  This  sugges- 
tion was  made  in  January,  1854,  after  he  returned  to 
Virginia  from  an  adventurous  journey  over  the  moun- 
tains to  demand  that  the  French,  who  were  beginning 
to  establish  themselves  in  the  region,  should  withdraw. 
Hitherto  the  angle  where  the  Alleghany  and  Monon- 
gahela  rivers  unite  to  form  the  Ohio  had  been  neglected, 
though  it  was  scarcely  less  important  than  Niagara  as 
a  key  to  the  great  West.  A  band  of  backwoodsmen 
was  promptly  dispatched  to  start  a  fort  there.  They 
had  been  at  work  on  it  about  two  months  when  they 
were  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  a  swarm  of  bateaux 
that  came  down  the  Alleghany  bringing  half  a  thousand 
Frenchmen  from  Canada.  The  latter  soon  compelled 
the  English  to  abandon  their  project.  They  then  de- 
molished the  unfinished  fort  and  began  a  much  larger 
one  to  which  they  gave  the  name  of  Duquesne,  their 
governor. 

The  next  year  General  Braddock  arrived  in  Virginia 
with  troops  from  England.      More  troops  were  raised 


io8    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

in  the  colonies,  and  in  June  the  little  army  entered  the 
wilderness  on  its  way  to  the  Ohio.  Three  hundred 
axmen  went  on  ahead  to  cut  and  clear  the  road,  and 
in  the  rear  followed  the  train  of  packhorses,  wagons, 
and  cannon,  toiling  over  the  stumps,  roots,  and  stones 
of  the  narrow  forest  track.  Squads  of  men  were  thrown 
out  on  the  flanks,  and  scouts  ranged  the  woods  to  guard 
against  surprise.  The  French  were  well  aware  of  this 
hostile  expedition,  and  a  few  of  them  and  some  of  their 
Indian  allies  hovered  about  the  English,  and  now  and 
then  scalped  a  straggler. 

On  the  seventh  of  July  the  main  body  of  the  English, 
consisting  of  twelve  hundred  soldiers,  besides  officers 
and  drivers,  forded  the  Monongahela  from  the  southern 
to  the  northern  bank  about  eight  miles  from  their 
destination.  They  were  beginning  to  move  along  a 
rough  path  in  the  dense  woodland  toward  Fort  Du- 
quesne  when  the  head  of  the  column  encountered  the 
enemy.  About  three  hundred  French  and  six  hundred 
Indians  had  come  forth  from  the  fort  to  oppose  them. 
The  place  of  meeting  was  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  and 
lofty  hill  where  now  is  the  busy,  smoke-belching  manu- 
facturing city  of  Braddock.  There  was  no  ambuscade, 
and  at  first  the  advantage  was  with  the  English.  But 
their  opponents  soon  scattered  and  fought  from  behind 
the  trees,  while  the  English  regulars  remained  in  hud- 
dled ranks,  greatly  disconcerted  because  they  could 
see  no  enemy  to  shoot  at.  A  charge  on  the  lurking 
Indians  would  have  been  useless,  for  they  would  have 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  109 

scattered  and  eluded  pursuit  and  quickly  returned  to 
the  attack. 

The  Virginians  at  first  fought  effectively  in  the  In- 
dian fashion  and  might  have  saved  the  day,  had  not 
the  brave  but  injudicious  Braddock,  furious  at  such 
apparent  lack  of  discipline  and  courage,  ordered  them 
with  oaths  to  fall  into  line.  Some  of  the  regulars,  who 
in  a  clumsy  way  imitated  the  provincials,  he  beat  with 
his  sword  and  compelled  them  to  stand  with  the  rest 
in  the  open.  Braddock  had  four  horses  shot  under 
him,  and  he  dashed  to  and  fro  like  a  madman.  Wash- 
ington, then  a  youth  of  twenty-three,  who  was  one  of 
Braddocks  aids,  had  two  of  the  horses  that  he  rode 
killed,  and  four  bullets  passed  through  his  clothes. 

In  the  end  Braddock  was  fatally  wounded,  and  the 
mob  of  soldiers,  after  being  three  hours  under  fire,  and 
their  ammunition  exhausted,  broke  away  in  a  blind 
frenzy  and  ran  back  to  the  ford.  About  three-fourths 
of  the  force  had  been  killed  or  disabled.  The  fugitives 
were  not  pursued,  yet  they  hurried  on  all  night,  nearly 
overcome  with  fear  and  despair.  During  the  days  that 
followed,  the  retreat  continued  with  a  good  deal  of 
disorder,  and  the  abandonment  or  destruction  of 
much  baggage.  On  the  thirteenth  day  Braddock  died. 
He  was  buried  in  the  road,  and  the  men,  horses, 
and  wagons  passed  over  his  grave,  effacing  every  sign 
of  it,  lest  the  Indians  should  find  and  multilate  the 
body. 

The  losses  on  the  French  side  in   the  battle  were 


no    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

probably  scarcely  a  tenth  of  those  suffered  by  the 
English.  After  the  conflict  ended,  the  field  had  been 
abandoned  to  the  savages,  who  made  it  a  pandemonium 
of  pillage  and  murder.  Later  they  returned  to  the  fort 
laden  with  plunder  and  scalps  and  escorting  about  a 
dozen  prisoners.  These  captives  were  tied  to  stakes 
and  burned  to  death  that  night  on  the  banks  of  the 
Alleghany  opposite  the  fort,  with  the  Indians  dancing 
about  and  yelling  like  fiends. 

Where  the  great  modern  city  now  stands,  the  wilder- 
ness had  only  been  subdued  at  the  extreme  point  of  the 
peninsula.  The  fort  had  the  water  close  on  two  sides, 
and  it  frowned  down  on  the  river  with  a  massive 
stockade  of  upright  logs,  twelve  feet  high,  mortised 
together  and  loopholed.  Facing  in  the  other  directions 
were  ramparts  of  squared  logs,  filled  in  with  earth  and 
fully  ten  feet  thick.  There  was  an  open  space  within 
surrounded  by  barracks  for  the  soldiers,  officers' 
quarters,  the  lodgings  of  the  commandant,  a  guard- 
house, and  a  storehouse,  all  built  partly  of  logs  and 
partly  of  boards.  The  forest  had  been  cleared  away 
to  a  distance  of  more  than  a  musket  shot  from  the  ram- 
parts, and  the  stumps  were  hacked  level  with  the  ground. 
In  this  cleared  space,  close  to  a  protecting  ditch  that 
adjoined  the  fort,  bark  cabins  had  been  built  for  such 
of  the  troops  and  Canadians  as  could  not  find  room 
within.  The  rest  of  the  space  was  covered  with  Indian 
corn  and  other  crops. 

Three  years  later  the  English  again  made  an  attempt 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  in 

against  Fort  Duquesne.  At  their  approach  the  French 
blew  up  the  fortifications  and  withdrew.  Soon  after- 
ward, on  the  same  spot,  Fort  Pitt  was  begun.  It  was 
substantial  and  costly,  but  it  is  all  gone  now  with  the 
exception  of  one  little  blockhouse.  This  blockhouse 
was  erected  when  there  .was  fear  of  trouble  with  the 
Indians  at  the  time  of  Pontiac's  Conspiracy.  On  the 
landward  side  of  the  fort  at  that  time  was  a  moat,  but 
the  moat  was  perfectly  dry  when  the  river  was  low, 
and  the  savages  could  crawl  up  the  ditch  and  shoot  any 
person  who  might  show  his  head  above  the  parapet. 
The  blockhouse  was  built  to  command  the  moat  and 
frustrate  that  sort  of  approach. 

The  sturdy  little  brick  and  timber  structure,  loop- 
holed  as  of  old  for  the  discharge  of  muskets,  is  almost 
swallowed  up  now  in  the  great  city.  It  occupies  a 
secluded  nook  with  the  buildings  of  the  town  encroach- 
ing close  on  one  side,  and  numerous  railway  tracks  on 
the  other.  Pittsburgers  are  reputed  to  be  too  busy 
making  money  to  think  about  the  history  of  the  place, 
but  they  have  provided  for  the  permanent  preservation 
of  this  blockhouse. 

Until  recently  the  caretaker  was  an  elderly  woman 
who  had  been  at  the  blockhouse  a  long,  long  time  keep- 
ing it  tidy,  selling  souvenirs,  and  recounting  its  story 
to  visitors.  But  one  day,  when  she  had  finished  eating 
dinner,  she  very  calmly  remarked  to  her  daughter: 
"Oh!  what's  the  use  of  it  all?  Let's  take  the  butcher- 
knife  route  to  get  away.  I'm  so  tired  of  this  world! 


112    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

There's  nothing  in  life  but  just  saying  one  thing  over 
and  over  and  over  again." 

Then  she  caught  up  a  big  knife  and  made  a  grab  at 
her  daughter,  but  the  latter  took  refuge  in  flight  and 
escaped  out  of  the  house.  When  she  returned  with 
help  she  found  that  her  mother  had  hung  herself  with 
the  clothesline. 

A  new  caretaker  was  installed  in  the  blockhouse,  and 
her  reticence  is  said  to  have  been  quite  monumental 
for  a  time.  Visitors  naturally  concluded  that  her  pre- 
decessor's tragic  end  had  made  her  solicitous  lest  much 
repetition  in  the  imparting  of  information  should  craze 
her  also. 

The  neighboring  waterways  have  been  the  scene  of 
many  interesting  and  curious  incidents,  and  among 
the  rest  I  would  recall  the  fact  that  in  1777  a  ducking- 
stool  was  established  where  the  Alleghany  and  Monon- 
gahela  unite  to  flow  on  as  the  Ohio.  A  visiting  Vir- 
ginian writing  of  the  Pittsburg  of  that  time  says,  "The 
homes  were  miserable  huts,  and  the  inhabitants  as 
dirty  as  in  the  north  of  Ireland  or  Scotland  itself.  The 
place  was  unblessed  by  the  gospel  and  infested  with 
dogs." 

About  the  same  time  another  gentleman,  in  giving 
his  first  impressions  of  the  place,  wrote  of  how  surprised 
travellers  were  to  find  here  "elegant  assemblages  of 
ladies  and  a  constant  round  of  parties  and  public  balls." 

Which  was  the  truer  view  of  the  town?  Very  likely 
the  observers  simply  came  into  contact  with  different 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  113 

phases  of  the  local  life,  and  doubtless  there  were  various 
grades  of  society.  As  for  the  ducking-stool  its  use  was 
not  confined  to  punishing  a  too  free  use  of  the  tongue 
on  the  part  of  the  lowly.  Women  of  position  were  num- 
bered also  among  its  victims. 

Imagine  the  scene  when  a  ducking  was  to  take  place. 
Here  were  the  unsullied  streams  and  a  frontier  village 
amid  the  virgin  forest.  All  work  was  suspended  and  a 
crowd  had  gathered.  Some  of  the  men  wore  cocked 
hats  and  laced  ruffles  and  buckles  and  swords,  and 
there  were  Indian  stragglers  gay  with  paint  and  feathers 
looking  on  to  see  how  the  pale-face  managed  his  squaws. 
Fine  ladies  had  come  in  their  silks  and  satins,  and  gap- 
ing lads  and  lasses  in  coarse  attire  of  fustian  and  woolen, 
and  stolid  hunters  and  woodsmen,  slatternly  women  of 
the  humble  class,  and  swarms  of  dirty  children. 

All  were  gazing  at  the  unhappy  victim  suspended 
ready  for  her  plunge.  Our  forbears  thought  the  pun- 
ishment plainly  fitted  to  the  crime,  for  as  they  said  it 
was  "to  drown  the  noise  that  is  in  a  woman's  head." 
The  ducking-stool  was  hung  at  the  end  of  a  pole  which 
worked  on  a  horizontal  bar  supported  by  two  uprights. 
A  sousing,  at  least  temporarily,  always  had  the  desired 
effect,  and  the  woman  would  beg  for  mercy  and  promise 
in  future  to  control  her  unruly  tongue. 

Pittsburgh  three  rivers  were  vital  channels  of  traffic 
in  the  old  days,  but  now  they  are  far  less  important 
than  the  railroads.  This  is  partly  because  they  are  not 
dependable.  In  winter  they  are  icebound,  and  in  sum- 


114    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

mer  there  are  times  when  the  Pittsburg  boys  play 
baseball  on  the  dry  sandbars  in  the  bed  of  the  streams. 
Many  steep  bluffs  and  rude,  lofty  hills  border  the  rivers 
in  the  Pittsburg  neighborhood  and  the  region  above. 
They  give  an  enlivening  touch  to  the  scene,  and,  before 
the  industrial  period,  must  have  been  wildly  beautiful. 
At  their  bases,  beside  the  streams,  is  a  constant  succes- 
sion of  manufacturing  villages  whence  the  smoke  never 
ceases  belching  forth  from  the  tall  chimneys  and  keeps 
the  valleys  forever  grimy,  and  the  atmosphere  dim  and 
sooty.  Pittsburg  itself  with  its  numerous  iron  furnaces 
and  busy  factories  is  of  course  the  monarch  of  this  in- 
dustrial realm;  and  as  seen  by  night,  when  the  furnace 
flames  leap  and  glow  amid  the  gloom  along  the  water- 
sides, it  has  been  likened  to  hell  with  the  lid  off.  Here 
is  produced  one-half  the  steel  and  glass  that  is  manu- 
factured in  the  United  States.  It  has  more  millionaires 
than  any  other  city  on  the  globe,  and  the  finest  resi- 
dences and  grounds  in  America.  Aside  from  the  fact 
that  it  is  an  important  gateway  to  the  West,  the  chief 
secret  of  its  growth  lies  in  its  position  in  the  center  of  a 
region  exceedingly  rich  in  bituminous  coal,  iron,  oil, 
and  natural  gas.  So  general  was  the  use  of  this  gas  at 
one  time  that  the  city  emerged  from  its  smoke  cloud, 
but  the  period  was  short,  and  the  factories  and  furnaces 
resorted  again  to  coal  and  coke.  Nevertheless,  except 
for  the  big  manufacturing  plants,  it  is  natural  gas  that 
lights  and  heats  most  of  the  big  town.  I  was  informed 
that  the  gas  is  so  cheap  that  the  poor  people,  who  in  any 


A  toll  bridge 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  115 

other  city  would  eagerly  carry  off  the  wood  rubbish 
resulting  from  building  operations,  here  disdain  such 
stuff,  and  men  have  to  be  paid  to  cart  it  away. 

Formerly  Pittsburg  had  a  reputation  for  being  super- 
latively healthful.  It  is  related  that  the  three  first 
churches  were  on  adjacent  corners  and  employed  a 
single  sexton,  who  was  once  known  to  remark  com- 
plainingly  that  the  times  were  very  hard — for  he  had 
had  no  person  to  bury  for  three  months.  As  late  as 
1845  a  physician  on  a  tour  visited  Pittsburg  and  pub- 
lished the  affirmation  that  he  never  before  was  in  such 
a  healthful  place.  He  especially  recommended  it  to 
persons  suffering  from  dropsies,  dysentaries,  and 
cholera.  Its  beneficial  qualities  he  attributed  to  its 
remoteness  from  the  swamps  of  the  Mississippi  Valley, 
and  to  the  gases  which  filled  the  air  from  the  bitumin- 
ous coal  that  was  burned. 

At  a  somewhat  later  period  deaths  became  rather 
numerous,  but  this  was  no  reflection  on  the  healthful- 
ness  of  the  situation.  It  was  the  result  of  the  influx  of 
foreign  laborers,  "who  used  to  kill  each  other  every 
Saturday  night  after  they  got  their  wages." 

Among  its  other  assets  this  thoroughly  modern  city 
has  a  ghost  story.  There  was  formerly  a  pack  peddler 
who  went  about  the  adjacent  region,  and  he  was  suffi- 
ciently aristocratic  to  have  his  packs  carried  by  a  negro 
servant.  One  day  the  peddler  was  found  dead.  His 
throat  had  been  cut,  and  his  valuables  stolen.  The 
negro  was  suspected.  He  was  caught  and  bound  and 


n6    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

hung  on  Pittsburg's  highest  hill.  Since  then  that  hill 
has  been  haunted.  For  a  long  time  its  crest  was  an 
amusement  park.  This  became  rather  tough  in  char- 
acter, and  those  of  its  patrons  who  came  home  late  at 
night  with  the  gifts  of  visions  imparted  by  liberal 
draughts  of  booze  often  saw  the  negro's  eerie  figure 
stalking  through  the  gloom  with  his  hands  tied  behind 
his  back. 

One  of  the  city's  sources  of  excitement  is  its  floods. 
The  frequency  and  height  of  these  very  likely  have 
some  relation  to  the  deforesting  of  the  headwaters  of 
the  streams,  but  the  encroaching  of  the  manufactories 
on  the  banks  has  doubtless  narrowed  the  channels,  and 
dams  back  the  water.  "We  had  one  of  our  greatest 
floods  in  1832,  the  year  I  was  born,"  an  elderly  citizen 
said  to  me.  "It  submerged  the  whole  lower  part  of  the 
town.  An  immense  amount  of  driftwood  used  to  come 
down  in  those  old-time  floods.  That  was  due  to  the 
lumbering  done  up  above.  A  good  many  people  here 
went  out  in  boats  to  catch  the  best  of  it.  Some  of  it 
floated  near  enough  to  shore  so  you  could  catch  it  with 
a  pole.  You  could  get  a  supply  of  firewood  and  some 
good  sawlogs. 

"Freight  went  and  came  over  the  mountains  in 
long,  heavy  wagons  with  bowed  tops  covered  with 
canvas.  Each  wagon  was  drawn  by  four  or  six  horses. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  rivalry  among  the  drivers 
to  beat  each  other  in  the  time  they  made.  A  driver  who 
got  here  from  the  east  within  a  specified  number  of 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  117 

hours  was  privileged  to  suspend  some  bells  over  the 
harness  of  his  horses  at  a  certain  point  outside  of  the 
town,  and  their  jingle  heralded  his  arrival  as  he  drove 
into  the  streets.  There  used  to  be  strings  of  these 
wagons  on  the  turnpike  coming  and  going  as  far  as  you 
could  see. 

"Passengers  were  carried  in  four-horse  stage-coaches. 
There  was  always  quite  a  bustle  of  excitement  in  the 
town  when  the  coaches  went  around  to  the  hotels 
gathering  up  passengers  before  leaving.  The  larger 
baggage  was  strapped  on  behind,  and  the  smaller  bag- 
gage was  stowed  under  the  driver's  seat.  It  was  natural 
that  the  drivers,  moving  about  as  they  did,  should  be 
pretty  well  informed,  and  they  certainly  felt  their  im- 
portance. The  coaches  travelled  day  and  night,  but 
there  were  good  taverns  where  the  travellers  could 
stop  if  they  wanted  to.  You  found  a  tavern  once  in 
ten  miles.  Relays  of  horses  were  kept  at  them,  and  at 
every  one  such  of  the  passengers  as  were  thirsty  could 
get  liquid  refreshments  while  the  horses  were  being 
changed.  It  was  a  rough  kind  of  journeying,  and  the 
rocking  of  the  coach  became  very  tiresome  if  you  were 
going  a  long  distance. 

"Travelling  on  the  canals  or  rivers  was  much  pleas- 
anter.  We  had  fine  river  boats  that  plied  between  here 
and  Southern  ports,  and  in  the  spring  and  fall  a  packet 
boat  left  every  day.  They  were  large  boats  with  side- 
wheel  paddles  and  carried  a  great  deal  of  freight,  and 
often  were  just  laden  with  passengers.  I've  seen  our 


n8    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

wharves  so  full  of  freight  you  could  hardly  get  along 
there.  The  low  water  of  summer  was  a  handicap  to 
river  travel,  but  we  had  boats  light  enough  to  float  on 
dew,  and  those  kept  going. 

"We  used  to  have  rafts  on  the  river  then — lots  of 
'em.  Some  were  of  sawed  lumber,  and  some  of  logs. 
There'd  be  a  little  cabin  of  boards  on  each  raft  for  the 
crew  to  live  in.  At  night  a  raft  would  tie  up  to  a  tree 
on  the  bank.  Traffic  on  the  river  also  made  use  of 
keelboats  and  flatboats.  The  former  were  much  like 
canal  boats.  In  going  upstream  a  long  rope  extended 
from  the  boat  to  a  horse  that  walked  along  on  the  shore, 
or  perhaps  the  towing  was  done  by  the  crew.  Where 
towing  was  not  practical  they  made  use  of  a  sail,  or 
resorted  to  poling.  Such  a  boat  would  make  one  round 
trip  a  year  to  New  Orleans.  The  freight  charges  were 
enormous,  particularly  for  bringing  sugar,  molasses, 
and  other  Southern  products  up  the  river. 

"The  flatboats  were  equipped  with  an  oar  at  each 
side  of  the  bow,  and  a  steering  oar  at  the  stern.  They 
carried  stone  and  sand,  hay,  potatoes,  cattle,  every- 
thing. Often  they  were  just  oblong  boxes  of  rough 
planks,  so  loosely  fastened  together  that  they  could  be 
knocked  to  pieces  when  they  finished  a  down-river 
journey,  and  sold  for  lumber.  You  could  stand  on  the 
bank  and  count  a  hundred  boats  and  rafts  in  sight  at 
the  same  time. 

"  Yes,  there've  been  great  changes  on  the  river  within 
my  recollection,  and  great  changes  here  on  the  land, 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  119 

too.  When  I  was  a  boy  the  city  was  all  down  to  the 
point,  and  if  you  went  back  a  mile  or  so  you  found 
farms  and  market  gardens  where  now  the  millionaires' 
mansions  stand.  But  I  have  n't  a  doubt  that  the 
people  who  lived  in  the  comfortable  old  farmhouses 
were  just  as  happy  as  the  millionaires  in  their  present- 
day  palaces." 

For  the  most  part,  the  smoky  manufacturing  villages 
and  towns  that  are  so  numerous  in  the  Pittsburg  region 
are  utterly  devoid  of  sentiment  and  charm.  But  I 
discovered  one  exception.  That  was  a  little  place 
named  Economy  a  few  miles  down  the  Ohio.  Here 
dwelt,  until  comparatively  recently,  a  peculiar  religious 
sect  known  as  Harmonists  or  Economites.  The  sect 
was  founded  in  Germany  by  George  and  Frederick 
Rapp  about  1787,  but  its  adherents  were  much  harassed 
there  by  petty  persecutions  and  presently  emigrated  to 
America.  They  made  a  settlement  in  Pennsylvania 
which  they  called  Harmony,  and  from  there  they  later 
moved  to  Indiana  and  built  New  Harmony.  This  in 
turn  was  abandoned  in  1824  and  they  came  to  the 
vicinity  of  Pittsburg.  At  that  time  they  numbered 
about  five  hundred. 

They  taught  that  the  condition  of  celibacy  is  most 
pleasing  to  God,  that  the  coming  of  Christ  and  renova- 
tion of  the  world  were  near  at  hand,  and  that  if  people 
would  follow  the  precepts  of  Christ  they  must  hold 
their  goods  in  common.  As  time  went  on  they  increased 
in  wealth,  but  decreased  in  members.  Not  only  did 


I2O    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

they  have  much  property  in  real  estate,  but  they  had 
investments  in  coal  mines,  and  controlled  at  Beaver 
Falls  the  largest  cutlery  manufactory  in  the  United 
States. 

The  village  still  presents  in  many  respects  its  ancient 
Economite  appearance.  There  are  regular  rows  of 
simple  brick  houses,  the  great  assembly  hall,  the 
charmingly  quaint  church  with  its  massive  tower,  some 
of  the  old  walled  gardens,  and  several  of  the  mills. 
Evidently  the  buildings  were  put  up  with  memories  of 
Germany  in  mind,  and  the  result  is  an  old-world  village 
in  our  new-world  surroundings.  The  houses  are  snug 
to  the  walks,  and  on  the  side  toward  the  street  their 
walls  rise  to  a  height  of  two  stories,  but  a  wooden  leanto 
slants  low  down  on  the  other  side.  No  door  breaks  the 
street  walls,  for  the  houses  turn  their  backs  on  the 
public  ways,  and  you  have  to  go  through  a  gate  and 
enter  them  from  the  garden.  Thus  the  people  avoided 
having  their  attention  attracted  by  worldly  scenes,  and 
they  tried  to  confine  their  meditations  to  things 
heavenly. 

A  village  acquaintance  let  me  into  the  church.  He 
knew  where  all  the  keys  to  the  various  doors  were  kept 
on  dusty  beams  and  in  out-of-the  way  nooks  and 
crannies,  and  I  explored  the  edifice  quite  thoroughly. 
Last  of  all  I  climbed  the  narrow,  gloomy  stairways  in 
the  tower  up  to  where  the  clock  and  the  bells  are,  and 
then  went  out  onto  a  little  gallery  whence  I  could  look 
down  on  the  spreading  church  roof  and  the  village.  On 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  121 

each  side  of  the  tower  was  a  clock  face  equipped  with  a 
single  pointer  to  roughly  indicate  the  time.  But  this 
indefiniteness  was  ameliorated  by  the  fact  that  the 
clock  struck  the  quarter  hours.  Moreover,  at  twelve 
o'clock  sharp,  each  mid-day,  it  let  loose  a  peal  that 
lasted  for  about  three  minutes — a  clamor  suggestive 
of  an  alarm  of  fire.  This  was  the  "dinner  bell." 

When  I  was  in  the  tower  the  clock  had  run  down, 
and  the  weights  that  furnished  the  motive  power  hung 
inert  at  the  end  of  the  long  ropes.  The  sexton  was 
supposed  to  wind  it  up  daily,  but  he  had  been  called 
out  of  town  the  previous  evening  and  had  not  yet 
returned. 

Across  the  road  was  the  "Great  House"  in  which  had 
dwelt  the  leader  of  the  sect.  It  was  much  like  the  other 
houses  except  that  it  covered  more  ground.  Beyond 
it  was  a  very  large  garden  where  there  were  grapevines, 
and  a  pretentious  fountain,  and  a  curious  little  stone 
hut  or  chapel. 

The  village  used  to  be  much  more  verdant  than  it  is 
now.  On  all  the  house  walls  there  had  been  trellises  to 
which  grapevines  clung,  and  the  streets  were  lined  with 
cherry  trees  which  furnished  fruit  as  well  as  shade.  The 
grapevines  have  been  neglected,  and  most  of  them  are 
dead  and  gone;  and  the  boys  clambered  about  up  in 
the  cherry  trees  in  quest  of  fruit  and  broke  down  the 
branches,  so  the  authorities  finally  had  the  trees 
removed. 

"Before  these  people  came  here,"  one  of  the  villagers 


122    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

said,  "they  lived  in  just  such  a  village  as  this  that 
they'd  built  and  named  New  Harmony,  in  Indiana. 
At  the  head  of  the  community  was  Father  Rapp.  He 
was  a  self-educated  man  who'd  become  a  religious 
lunatic.  Originally  he  was  a  poor  weaver.  The 
Harmonists  did  n't  marry,  and  they  would  prove  by 
what  St.  Paul  taught  in  the  Bible  that  marriage 
was  n't  desirable.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  fellow  St. 
Paul  was.  Probably  nature  had  n't  favored  him  with 
good  looks.  I  guess  he  must  have  been  goggle-eyed, 
splay-footed,  humpbacked,  and  in  general  so  ugly  the 
women  would  n't  look  at  him.  Otherwise,  he  would  n't 
have  said  such  things  as  he  did.  But  the  Harmonists 
believed  in  his  celibacy  doctrine,  and  it  was  their  idea 
that  they  ought  to  shun  all  the  ordinary  pleasures  of 
life  and  pray  unceasingly. 

"One  time  when  Father  Rapp  had  been  praying 
all  night  there  in  their  Indiana  town  he  heard  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet,  and  he  went  out  in  the  yard,  and 
down  came  the  angel  Gabriel.  Near  the  door  was  a 
rock,  and  the  angel  alighted  on  that,  and  he  left  the 
print  of  his  foot  in  it.  He  must  have  come  with  his 
foot  hot  straight  from  heaven  and  with  a  good  deal  of 
force,  or  he  would  n't  have  made  such  an  impression. 
That  footprint  has  been  there  ever  since.  To  the 
Harmonists  it  was  sacred,  and  some  would  kiss  it. 
They  believed  that  if  they  continued  in  the  ways  they'd 
adopted,  living  abstemiously,  and  the  men  keeping 
clear  of  the  women,  that  the  angel  Gabriel  would  return 


The  old  church  at  Econon.y 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  123 

and  take  them  in  his  arms  up  to  heaven  so  they'd 
escape  the  pangs  of  death. 

"They  got  their  Indiana  land  for  nothing,  and  they 
improved  it  and  even  acquired  wealth,  but  a  good  many 
of  'em  suffered  from  malaria,  and  some  died.  That 
made  the  people  around  them  say,  'Ho,  ho!  thought 
you  was  n't  going  to  die.' 

"Quite  a  number  deserted,  and  after  a  while  the  rest 
sold  out,  packed  up  their  goods  on  wagons,  and  come 
here  to  make  a  new  start.  They  bought  three  thousand 
acres  of  land  and  a  lot  of  cattle  and  sheep,  and 
built  big  barns,  and  they  had  a  saw  mill,  a  grist  mill, 
a  cider  mill — oh!  they  made  the  best  cider  I  ever  tasted. 
They  were  particular  about  the  quality  of  whatever 
they  made,  either  for  their  own  use  or  to  sell.  Every- 
thing was  done  up  in  apple-pie  order.  They  had  a 
woolen  mill  and  a  cotton  factory,  and  they  raised 
grapes  and  made  wine,  and  they  grew  mulberry 
trees,  the  foliage  of  which  they  fed  to  their  silkworms, 
and  they  had  a  mill  where  the  silk  was  woven  into 
cloth. 

"The  silk  business  was  considerable  of  an  industry 
with  them,  and  they  wore  various  silk  garments  of 
their  own  producing.  On  Sunday  when  they  came  out 
in  all  their  glory  the  women  would  each  have  a  big  silk 
kerchief  about  their  shoulders,  and  they  had  silk  gowns, 
and  quaint  blue  silk  bonnets,  and  the  men  had  silk 
trousers  and  coats.  The  fashions  did  n't  change  with 
them  every  year  as  they  do  with  us  now,  and  the  clothes 


124    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

were  all  right  till  they  wore  out.  A  well-cared-for  silk 
gown  would  last  a  woman  all  her  life. 

"Father  Rapp  had  a  silk  robe  that  he  used  to  put  on 
every  evening  and  walk  up  and  down  his  garden  among 
the  mulberry  trees  that  grew  there  praying  for  the 
angel  Gabriel  to  come  and  take  him  up  to  heaven.  It 
was  a  very  gorgeous  gown  of  ruby  velvet  lined  with 
pale  blue  silk. 

"  Since  Father  Rapp  died,  the  Great  House  in  which 
he  lived  has  been  haunted.  Strange  noises  are  heard 
in  it  at  night,  and  apparitions  have  been  seen,  and  two 
Sisters  of  Charity  who  slept  there  had  the  bedclothes 
yanked  off  from  them.  One  of  its  occupants,  when  he 
was  dying,  shrieked  and  yelled  that  a  great  treasure 
was  buried  in  the  cellar.  However,  perhaps  the  in- 
fluence that  made  him  say  so  may  have  been  just 
devilish;  and  yet  a  Spiritualist  medium  has  said  that 
he  spoke  only  the  truth,  but  that  something  dreadful 
would  happen  to  anyone  who  knowingly  dug  in  the 
cellar.  If  a  person  found  the  treasure  by  chance  he 
would  be  all  right. 

"The  people  were  cheerful,  comfortable,  and  kindly. 
They  were  old-fashioned  and  Dutch-like  in  appearance, 
and  they  clung  to  the  use  of  the  German  language 
among  themselves.  The  men  and  women  went  out 
and  worked  together  in  the  fields  or  in  the  different 
mills,  and  they  all  did  just  as  they  were  ordered.  Their 
labor  was  not  very  arduous,  and  they  stopped  to  rest 
when  they  got  tired.  But  they  were  not  always  satisfied 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  125 

with  the  management  of  their  superiors,  and  there  was 
more  or  less  heart-burning. 

"It  was  a  frugal  peasant  community,  and  the  people 
fared  very  simply.  Twice  a  week  rations  were  given 
out  from  the  general  supplies — wine,  beer,  and  cider 
from  the  assembly  hall  cellar,  and  other  things  from 
the  company  store.  They  ate  five  times  a  day  after 
the  manner  of  the  fatherland,  beginning  with  breakfast 
at  six  in  the  morning  and  ending  with  supper  at  half- 
past  seven.  They  had  various  feasts,  and  in  the  fall 
one  great  feast  that  lasted  three  or  four  days  when  they 
ate  together  in  the  big  assembly  hall.  Their  meals 
were  not  very  sociable.  Once  I  went  to  dinner  in  the 
house  of  the  leader  of  the  society,  and  I  began  talking 
just  as  I  would  anywhere  else,  but  I  did  n't  get  any 
response,  and  then  I  noticed  that  the  Father  had 
stopped  with  his  knife  upright  in  one  hand  and  fork  in 
the  other,  and  was  looking  at  me  viciously.  'Shut 
up!'  he  said  in  German,  and  I  did  so.  It  was  their  way 
to  eat  in  silence,  except  for  asking  in  a  low  voice  for 
what  they  wanted,  and  to  get  through  and  get  out. 

"The  old  village  was  perfectly  charming — absolute 
order  everywhere,  and  a  sort  of  peacefulness  brooding 
over  it — a  Sunday-go-to-meeting  quiet.  The  women 
kept  the  houses  scrubbed,  and  there  were  muslin  sash 
curtains  at  the  windows,  and  on  the  wide  window-sills 
were  flowers,  especially  primroses,  that  bloomed  all 
winter.  They  were  very  careful  and  choice  about 
everything.  Neatness  and  cleanliness  were  universal. 


126    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Even  the  streets  were  immaculate,  and  beyond  the 
houses  were  such  nice  little  gardens! 

"No  one  was  allowed  on  the  street  after  nine  o'clock, 
and  anyone  caught  later  than  that  was  arrested  and 
taken  before  the  trustees.  Once  a  friend  of  mine  came 
to  the  place  on  a  late  evening  train,  and  he  was  halted 
by  two  night  watchmen  accompanied  by  a  big  dog. 
They  were  very  gruff,  and  he  was  simply  scared  to 
death.  The  watchmen  patroled  the  streets,  and  every 
hour  of  the  night,  beginning  with  nine,  they  stopped 
right  at  the  church  and  called  out,  'All's  well,  we  wait 
for  death!' 

"If  they  found  any  toughs  or  tramps  they  took  them 
to  a  house  set  apart  for  that  class  of  people,  and  an  old 
couple  lived  there  to  take  care  of  the  house  and  of  them. 
The  vagrants  were  n't  exactly  welcome,  yet  such  was 
the  treatment  they  received  that  this  was  a  favorite 
resort  of  theirs.  It  was  against  the  rules  for  the  vil- 
lagers to  feed  them  at  the  houses;  so  they  were  com- 
pelled to  go  to  their  own  hotel.  There'd  be  forty  or 
fifty  of  them  some  nights  in  seasons  when  the  tramps 
were  very  thick.  In  the  evening  or  in  the  morning 
you'd  see  the  wayfarers  sitting  on  benches  along  the 
house  walls,  and  the  old  man  and  woman  bringing  out 
a  big  cup  of  coffee  and  a  chunk  of  black  bread  to  each 
man.  After  breakfast  the  old  couple  bid  the  tramps 
God  speed  and  sent  them  on  their  way. 

"The  Harmonists  had  a  beautiful  old  hotel  here.  It 
was  just  such  a  hotel  as  you  might  find  in  a  German 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  127 

village.  Everything  was  neat  and  primitive,  and  the 
dining  room  floor  was  sprinkled  with  white  sand.  For 
three  dollars  a  week  you  could  get  every  imaginable 
comfort  there.  It's  gone  now.  Unfortunately  it  was 
torn  down  by  somebody  who  forgot  himself.  That 
was  Billy  Rice,  a  fellow  who  came  here  as  a  boy  and 
was  employed  around  the  hotel  at  first  as  a  hostler,  and 
later  as  bar-keeper.  He  married  a  nice  sort  of  girl  who 
had  money,  and  then  he  bought  the  hotel. 

When  he  pulled  the  hotel  down  it  was  with  the  idea 
of  building  something  more  pretentious,  but  he  could  n't 
get  the  cash.  So  he  set  up  in  business  as  a  butcher  in  a 
little  shop  on  his  property,  and  lived  in  some  rooms 
over  the  shop.  Meanwhile  he'd  been  growing  very 
fond  of  whiskey  until  he  nearly  lived  on  it,  and  he 
began  to  spend  more  than  his  income  and  to  be  abusive 
to  his  wife.  Still,  he  was  n't  a  bad  sort  of  fellow  when 
he  was  sober.  One  day  he  came  into  the  room  where 
his  wife  was  ironing  and  said  he  must  have  money  and 
told  her  to  get  it  from  her  mother.  She  refused  to  do 
so,  and  he  deliberately  took  out  a  revolver  and  blew 
her  head  off.  She  fell,  and  her  body  lay  under  the 
ironing  table.  As  for  Billy,  he  got  into  bed  and  shot 
himself.  There  they  found  him  seriously  wounded. 
He  was  rushed  to  a  hospital,  but  he  only  lived  a  few 
weeks,  and  I  think  he  died  there  practically  from  the 
want  of  liquor. 

"Time  went  on  and  the  Harmonists  became  few  and 
old,  and  bedridden  and  forlorn.  They  could  n't  do 


128    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

their  customary  work,  and  many  of  them  had  to  have 
caretakers.  So  at  last  they  sold  out  and  the  society 
came  to  an  end. 

"A  little  outside  of  the  village  they  had  a  graveyard. 
Burials  were  made  in  very  rough  wooden  coffins  with 
no  handles,  and  they'd  just  put  a  rope  around  the  box 
and  lower  it  into  the  grave.  Then,  when  the  leader 
said,  'Dust  to  dust,  and  ashes  to  ashes,'  the  people 
would  drop  flowers  down  on  the  coffin.  Everybody 
brought  a  boquet,  even  if  it  was  only  a  wizened  little 
flower  with  a  few  bits  of  green.  None  of  the  graves 
were  marked.  The  people  tried  to  live  as  equals  here 
on  earth,  and  they  chose  to  sleep  as  equals  in  the  grave 
with  no  gravestones  to  suggest  differences  or  to  invite 
ostentation.  Lately  a  sewer  has  been  run  through  the 
graveyard,  and  inevitably  it  disturbed  many  of  the 
grassgrown,  unmarked  graves." 

The  Harmonists  certainly  made  an  interesting  ex- 
periment in  living,  and  some  features  of  the  social  order 
they  established  are  quite  appealing.  Their  trials  and 
disappointments  were  not  without  compensations,  and 
I  wonder  which  is  the  more  to  be  envied — that  serene 
little  village  of  Economy  in  the  time  of  its  prosperity, 
or  the  strenuous  city  of  Pittsburg  with  its  mingled 
wealth  and  poverty. 

NOTES. — Pittsburg  is  certainly  not  beautiful,  but  it  is  a  chief 
industrial  center  of  the  continent,  and  a  wonderful  wealth  pro- 
ducer. The  reason  for  its  supremacy  in  these  respects  is  the  fact 
that  it  is  in  the  heart  of  one  of  the  richest  coal  districts  in  the 


An  Industrial  Metropolis  129 

world,  so  that  it  has  the  advantage  of  cheap  fuel  for  its  manu- 
factories. 

Through  the  adjacent  rivers  more  than  20,000  miles  of  inland 
navigation  are  open  to  the  steamers  of  the  city,  and,  owing  to  the 
enormous  coal  traffic,  the  tonnage  of  Pittsburg's  river  craft  is 
greater  than  that  of  New  York. 

As  early  as  1804  a  line  of  stages  was  established  between  Phila- 
delphia and  Pittsburg,  a  distance  of  350  miles.  The  first  railroad 
across  the  Alleghanies  reached  Pittsburg  in  1847. 

A  half  day  can  be  spent  to  advantage  visiting  one  of  the  great 
steel  works.  As  a  contrast  to  the  big,  grimy  manufactories  along 
the  rivers,  one  should  see  the  palaces  in  the  residence  district  on 
the  heights. 

Pittsburg's  right  to  the  title  of  "the  Smoky  City"  has  been  vindi- 
cated by  the  discovery  that  the  average  resident  carries  in  his  lungs 
a  quarter  of  a  pint  of  soot. 

Braddock,  7  miles  up  the  Monongahela,  deserves  attention  as 
the  battleground  where  the  British  were  so  dreadfully  defeated  by 
the  French  and  Indians. 

That  charming  old  communistic  village  of  Economy,  19  miles 
down  the  Ohio,  should  also  be  seen. 

Johnstown,  77  miles  east  of  Pittsburg,  is  of  interest  because  of 
the  inundation  that  overwhelmed  it  on  May  3ist,  1889.  It  is  an 
iron-making  city  at  the  junction  of  the  Conemaugh  and  Stony 
Creek.  The  valleys  here  are  deep  and  narrow,  which  explains  the 
completeness  of  the  catastrophe.  Above  Johnstown,  18  miles,  was 
Conemaugh  Lake,  about  3  miles  long  and  I  mile  broad.  This  was  a 
fishing  resort  of  a  club  of  Pittsburg  anglers.  The  waters  were 
restrained  by  a  dam  1,000  feet  long,  no  feet  high,  90  feet  thick  at 
the  base,  and  25  feet  thick  at  the  top.  Violent  rains  filled  the  lake 
to  overflowing,  and  about  3  o'clock  that  May  afternoon  a  300  foot 
gap  was  broken  in  the  dam.  The  water  swept  down  the  valley  in 
a  mass  a  half  mile  broad  and  40  feet  high,  carrying  everything  in  its 
way.  In  7  minutes  it  had  reached  Johnstown.  A  little  below  the 


130    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

city  the  mass  of  houses,  trees,  machinery  and  other  wreckage  was 
checked  by  a  railway  bridge.  It  caught  fire  and  many  persons, 
unable  to  free  themselves  from  the  debris,  were  burned  to  death. 
The  estimated  total  of  lives  lost  varies  from  2,300  to  5,000.  The 
property  loss  was  at  least  £10,000,000. 


A  coal  village  with  a  mountainous  culm  heap  in  the 
background 


VI 


A    VALE    OF    ANTHRACITE 

IT  was  with  some  misgivings  that  I  journeyed  to  the 
Lackawanna    Valley.       I    feared  the  coal  country 
would  prove  wholly  black  and  forbidding,  and  the 
towns    dubiously    monotonous,    and    labor    conditions 
sordid  and  depressing.    My  first  pause  was  at  Scranton, 
but  that  is  a  great  business  center,  and  though  coal  is 
being  mined  under  and  all  about  it,  I  preferred  to  get 
away  to  some  smaller  and  more  comprehensible  places 
to  the  northward. 

Through  the  midst  of  the  valley  runs  the  Lackawanna 
River,  a  swift,  inky  stream,  whqse  waters,  in  this 
mountain  region,  are  no  doubt  naturally  crystal  pure, 
but  are  now  so  stained  with  coal  washings  that  it  might 
be  a  veritable  stream  of  Hades.  Where  there  should  be 
yellow  sandbars  are  dubious  deposits  of  black,  and  the 
midstream  rocks  have  caught  unsightly  masses  of 
rotting  railroad  ties  and  other  rubbish  that  is  due  to  the 
presence  of  a  busy  and  rather  irresponsible  hive  of 
human  industry  along  the  banks.  The  sky,  too,  even 
when  it  is  cloudless,  nearly  always  has  a  murky,  threat- 
ening aspect  due  to  the  smoke  that  fills  the  atmosphere. 
This  smoke  comes  in  part  from  the  numerous  breakers 
at  the  mouth  of  the  mines,  and  in  part  from  the  engines 


132    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

on  the  railroad  tracks  that  crisscross  the  valley  in  an 
intricate  network.  The  trains  of  heavy  coal  cars,  and 
the  lighter  trains  on  the  narrow  gauge  roads  from  the 
mines  moved  hither  and  thither  in  apparently  hopeless 
confusion,  and  wherever  I  went,  the  thunder  of  iron 
wheels  on  the  tracks  was  always  sounding  in  my  ears. 

Very  few  trees  are  found  in  the  valley,  yet  the  great 
stumps  that  are  still  to  be  seen  in  places  where  the  sur- 
face has  not  been  torn  up  show  that  the  land  was 
heavily  wooded  at  no  very  remote  time.  If  a  chestnut 
tree  or  a  beech  has  by  any  chance  been  spared  it  is  a 
treasure  trove  to  the  youngsters,  and  when  the  nuts 
ripen  they  assail  it  with  sticks,  and  climb  up  and  shake 
the  branches.  They  feast  on  the  nuts  as  they  gather 
them,  for  the  trees  are  too  few,  and  the  boys  too  many 
to  allow  the  nut-gatherers  to  fill  their  pockets. 

The  coal  deposit?  are  tapped  along  the  sides  of  the 
valley,  somewhat  back  from  the  stream,  and  there 
stand  the  giant  breakers — lofty,  sinister-looking  struc- 
tures, with  a  wide-spreading  base,  but  terracing  upward 
to  a  small  peak.  The  trestled  tracks  from  the  mines 
run  to  the  very  top,  and  a  cable  drags  the  loaded  cars 
up  the  steep  incline.  Close  beside  each  dingy,  towering 
breaker  is  a  pigmy  engine-house  with  a  row  of  stout 
metal  smokestacks  sticking  up  through  the  roof,  and 
this  is  the  center  of  an  inferno  of  smoke  and  steam  and 
gas. 

The  loaded  cars  are  dumped  far  up  aloft,  their  con- 
tents are  crushed,  and  the  slate  and  sulphur-stained 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  133 

pieces  are  picked  out  by  the  breaker  boys.  A  series  of 
chutes  carries  all  the  material  down  to  the  ground  level, 
and  delivers  the  good  coal  into  cars  on  the  railroad 
tracks,  and  the  refuse  into  much  smaller  narrow-gauge 
cars  to  be  dragged  by  cable  to  the  top  of  a  vast  black 
heap  of  culm,  as  it  is  called.  Once  on  the  crest  of  the 
culm  pile,  a  mule  is  attached  to  the  car,  and  it  is  dragged 
away  to  the  farthest  verge,  and  there  its  contents  are 
released  and  slide  down  the  declivity. 

These  culm  dumps  are  the  most  conspicuous  feature 
of  the  valley  landscapes.  They  loom  huge  and  somber 
above  everything  else,  and  dwarf  the  loftiest  breaker 
and  the  highest  of  the  village  church  spires.  It  is  sur- 
prising how  small  the  men  and  mules  on  top  appear  as 
you  look  up  at  them  from  below.  Some  of  these  gloomy, 
steep-sided,  barren  mountains  of  coal  waste  are  four  or 
five  hundred  feet  high,  but  they  are  not  destined  to  be 
permanent.  Most  of  the  material  in  their  soaring 
heights  is  burnable  in  the  modern  furnaces.  A  few  of 
the  piles  have  already  been  entirely  worked  over,  and 
probably  nine-tenths  of  what  was  in  them  was  shipped 
away. 

On  the  lower  edges  of  the  dumps  one  often  sees 
women  at  work  rescuing  some  of  the  better  coal  that 
is  mingled  with  the  stony  refuse.  Most  of  these 
gleaners  are  elderly,  but  there  are  comely,  vigorous 
young  women,  too,  and  occasional  little  girls.  Now 
and  then  a  woman  will  climb  far  up  the  slippery  slides, 
with  her  skirts  fluttering  in  the  wind.  Some  carry 


134    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

• 

a  hammer,  and  some  delve  and  claw  among  the  frag- 
ments with  a  short-handled  hoe  or  hook.  In  their 
opinion  the  pieces  they  hammer  free  from  the  slate, 
and  the  other  fragments  they  glean,  are  just  as  good 
coal  as  they  could  buy  from  a  dealer.  They  carry 
it  to  near-by  homes  in  pails,  and  to  the  more  dis- 
tant ones  in  bags.  Ordinarily,  the  bags  are  trundled 
away  on  wheelbarrows,  yet  frequently  an  old  woman 
will  get  a  full,  heavy  bag  on  her  back  and  stagger  off 
with  it. 

The  dumps  and  the  coal  mine  vicinity  were  by  no 
means  so  desolute  and  lacking  in  human  cheer  as  I  had 
expected.  Perhaps  the  oddest  source  of  pleasure  that 
I  observed  was  the  use  of  a  dump  as  a  sliding  place. 
The  material  just  there  was  finely  broken,  and  two 
small  negro  boys  with  a  sled  would  start  at  the  top, 
one  sitting  and  the  other  standing  behind  and  clinging 
to  the  sitter's  shoulders,  and  down  they  would  come 
with  a  startling  rush.  It  looked  like  a  wild  and  reckless 
ride,  but  evidently  their  nerves  were  not  at  all  shaken. 
They  lived  just  beyond  the  farthermost  outthrusting 
ridge  of  the  irregular  culm  pile,  and  their  little  cabin 
home  was  quite  a  curiosity — a  makeshift  dwelling  to 
which  odds  and  ends  picked  up  by  chance  had  con- 
tributed largely.  If  one  could  judge  by  the  number  of 
children  playing  about  the  porch,  it  was  thickly  inhabi- 
ted. With  the  brushy  woods  close  around,  the  house 
was  not  without  a  rude  charm  that  was  suggestive  of 
the  sunny  South. 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  135 

Few  of  the  miners'  homes  that  I  saw  were  exactly 
squalid,  yet  a  careless  disregard  for  appearances  seemed 
to  be  general.  Little  attention  was  given  to  securing 
shade  trees,  or  to  beautifying  the  premises  with  flowers 
and  vines.  Often  there  was  unkemptness,  yet  not 
such  a  degree  of  it  as  would  prove  especially  unhealthy. 
The  people  seemed  hardy,  and  the  children  as  a  rule 
apparently  had  sound  bodies  and  were  attractively 
intelligent.  The  miners  themselves,  going  homeward 
from  work  with  their  blackened  hands,  faces,  and 
clothing,  looked  almost  demoniac,  but  when  the  grime 
had  been  removed  and  they  had  changed  their  gar- 
ments they  were  much  like  other  men. 

Workers  recently  from  Europe  are  apt  to  hive  to- 
gether unreasonably,  not  because  they  receive  starva- 
tion wages,  but  because  they  have  been  used  to  that 
sort  of  crowding,  or  because  they  want  to  save  every 
last  penny  in  order  to  bring  over  their  families.  As 
soon  as  they  get  a  thrifty  start  in  the  world  they  adopt 
a  more  generous  mode  of  living.  The  laborers  certainly 
have  money  to  spend,  for  they  are  among  the  best 
patrons  of  the  cheap  shows,  and  they  support  an  ex- 
cessive number  of  dubious  saloons.  Lawlessness  often 
manifests  itself  in  the  mining  towns,  but  it  is  seldom 
the  recent  arrivals  who  are  the  mischief-makers.  No, 
most  of  the  "deviltry"  is  attributed  to  young  fellows 
of  American  birth. 

In  the  part  of  the  valley  where  I  spent  the  larger 
portion  of  my  time  the  mountains  to  right  and  left  were 


136    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

near  and  steep.  Their  raggedly  wooded  slopes  were 
very  stony,  and  even  the  land  along  the  river  had  the 
same  thin-soiled,  rocky  character.  It  never  could  have 
offered  much  encouragement  to  agriculture.  Over  the 
heights,  however,  in  either  direction  is  fertility.  Never- 
theless, because  of  the  coal,  here  is  wealth  and  a  dense 
population,  while  over  there  is  comparative  poverty 
and  only  scattered  dwellers.  The  coal  valley  is  the 
market  for  the  latter,  and  there  is  much  toilsome  team- 
ing over  the  rugged  ridges.  One  day  I  walked  with  a 
sturdy  farmer  who  was  on  his  way  homeward  trudging 
up  the  hill  beside  his  team  and  stopping  often  to  rest 
his  horses. 

"This  is  a  hard  old  mountain  to  go  over,"  he  said, 
"but  the  steepest,  roughest  part  of  the  road  in  the  whole 
seven  miles  that  I  have  to  go  is  right  here  as  we're 
leaving  the  town.  Do  you  see  the  cracks  in  the  side- 
walk by  this  house  we're  passin'?  That's  caused  by 
the  ground  settling.  The  railroad  company  that  owns 
the  coal  mines  had  been  robbing  the  pillars  that  were 
left  to  support  the  roof  above  the  coal  vein.  They 
don't  care  nothin'  if  they  let  the  whole  thing  drop. 
When  they  sell  any  land  they  only  sell  surface  rights 
so  they  can  do  as  they  please  underground,  and  a  man 
puts  up  a  house  at  his  own  risk.  Often  the  house  set- 
tles and  racks,  and  one  corner's  up  and  another  down 
so  the  doors  won't  shut.  Oh!  it  warps  'em  up  in  great 
shape.  Every  day  or  two  you  see  in  the  paper  that 
some  house  has  settled.  Last  summer  the  ground 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  137 

caved  under  a  man  who  was  workin'  in  his  garden  and 
let  him  right  down  into  a  mine.  In  some  places  I've 
noticed  houses  tipped  right  sideways.  They  were  so 
bad  that  the  people  in  'em  had  to  leave.  One  night  a 
house  went  down  about  twenty  feet,  and  a  stove  inside 
was  capsized,  and  the  whole  thing  burned  up.  There's 
trouble  from  buildings  settling  on  some  of  the  best 
streets  in  Scranton. 

"Of  course,  the  closter  a  vein  is  to  the  top  of  the 
surface  and  the  thicker  it  is  the  more  chance  there  is 
for  trouble  after  the  coal  has  been  taken  out.  Even 
where  big  enough  pillars  are  left,  and  they  are  not 
robbed,  you  are  only  safe  for  a  while.  The  exposure 
to  the  air,  and  the  action  of  water  that  finds  its  way 
down  from  the  surface  make  the  coal  crumble,  and 
pieces  of  the  roof  are  always  falling.  But  if  the  vein 
is  down  as  deep  as  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  feet  the 
vacant  space  fills  up  roughly  without  making  a  dis- 
turbance at  the  surface. 

"Now  we're  up  the  worst  of  the  hill  on  more  level 
ground,  and  just  ahead  is  a  place  where  the  whole  road 
has  settled  five  feet.  You  can  see  cracks  and  ragged 
holes  on  either  side  there  in  the  brush.  The  ground 
settles  most  in  the  spring  when  everything  is  soft.  I'll 
take  you  down  into  a  hollow  near  here  to  show  you 
better  what's  happening." 

He  turned  off  onto  a  grassy  woodroad  and  left  his 
horses  standing  under  a  tree.  We  were  on  a  wild  up- 
land where  the  scrubby  forest  growth  showed  the 


138    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

ravages  of  recent  fires,  and  where  the  ground  was 
nearly  hidden  by  the  crimson  autumn  glory  of  tangles 
of  huckleberry  bushes.  Soon  we  reached  the  ravine, 
and  my  guide  pointed  out  to  me  the  effects  of  the  work 
underground  in  shattering  the  bordering  cliffs,  making 
holes  in  the  earth,  and  slanting  the  trees  out  of  the 
perpendicular.  In  the  depths  of  the  glen  was  a  stream 
dropping  over  the  ledges  and  worrying  along  its  bould- 
er-strewn channel  with  much  fume  and  clamor.  At 
one  place  it  flowed  over  an  outcropping  of  virgin 
coal  that  showed  distinctly  on  either  side  of  the  hol- 
low. Probably  it  was  just  such  a  dark  crumbling  mass 
that  first  gave  a  hint  of  the  fuel  riches  of  this  wilder- 
ness. 

When  I  was  again  back  in  the  town  descending  the 
precipitous  hill  I  stopped  to  speak  with  a  corpulent 
old  Irish  woman  who  sat  in  the  corner  of  her  yard,  just 
inside  of  the  fence,  hammering  away  at  a  heap  of  coal. 
She  was  reducing  the  big  lumps  to  stove  size.  "This 
is  the  way  it  comes  from  the  mine,"  she  said.  "It's 
awful  dear  if  you  buy  it  after  it's  made  ready  for  your 
fire.  I  break  a  little  every  day,  but  the  work  is  too 
hard  for  me." 

She  pulled  the  old  shawl  she  had  on  her  shoulders 
closer  about  her,  heaved  a  sigh,  and  looked  out  at  me 
over  her  spectacles  with  exaggerated  pathos  from  under 
the  cowl-like  brown  cloth  she  wore  wound  around  her 
head.  After  a  moment's  pause  she  asked,  "Are  you  an 
agent,  or  are  you  a  boss  up  at  the  tunnel?" 


-Si 

M 


A  Vale'of  Anthracite  139 

I  satisfied  her  as  to  that  and  mentioned  that  my  home 
was  in  New  England. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know  about  New  England.  That 
was  the  first  settled  part  of  this  counthry.  I  like  to 
read  in  history  about  thim  Pilgrims  comin'  across  the 
ocean  and  of  the  hard  times  they  had.  It's  intherestin'. 
I  have  fri'nds  out  in  Boston.  That  is  in  New  England. 
I've  often  heard  tell  of  Boston,  and  I  think  I  was  near 
it  once.  My  daughter  had  married,  and  I  went  to  live 
with  her  in  Connecticut  at  a  place  called  Derby.  But 
it  was  not  nice  there.  Oh!  I  did  n't  like  it  at  all.  The 
wather  was  bad,  and  that  made  drunkards  of  'em,  you 
know.  I  could  n't  drink  that  Derby  wather.  But 
we  have  the  grandest  wather  here.  It  tastes  good,  and 
it's  soft  and  all  right  for  washing. 

"This  is  a  healthy  place,  too.  We  have  pure  air. 
But  at  Derby,  Connecticut,  I'd  see  so  many  complainin' 
of  ager  and  malaria.  They  have  two  big  rivers  there,  and 
a  great  many  people  were  drowned.  The  people  could 
get  a  living  all  right,  but  I'd  see  the  women  go  off 
workin'  and  the  men  idle  at  home.  I  did  n't  like  that. 
House  rent  was  awful  dear  there,  and  so  was  other 
things.  I  paid  three  dollars  and  a  quarter  for  half  a 
ton  of  coal,  and  you  could  put  it  all  in  three  bags,  and 
I  had  to  pay  twenty-five  cents  for  a  couple  of  little 
bundles  of  wood. 

"Well,  I  came  back  here  after  a  while,  and  here  I'll 
stay  the  rest  of  my  days;  but  this  is  no  cheap  place 
either  for  buying  most  things.  Pork  is  expensive,  and 


140    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

so  is  other  kinds  of  food.  That's  what  they  call  the 
high  cost  of  living.  I  like  pork  and  cabbage.  You  bile 
the  pork  a  little  while;  then  you  put  the  cabbage  in 
the  pot.  Yes,  that's  what  I  like.  Are  potatoes  dear 
where  you  live?  They  are  here.  Potatoes  don't  grow 
so  productive  in  our  gardens  as  they  used  to.  The 
ground  is  too  old  or  something.  I  think  the  mines  soak 
away  all  the  good  from  the  land.  But  the  Eyetalians 
here  does  have  grand  gardens;  and  they  are  not  a  bad 
sort  of  people.  They  fight  a  good  deal  among  them- 
selves, but  they  don't  bother  the  rest  of  us. 

"That's  my  old  man  just  goin'  in  the  gate.  He's 
finished  his  day's  work  in  the  mines.  He  can't  do 
heavy  work  any  more,  but  they  don't  discharge  him. 
He's  been  workin'  for  the  company  so  long  they  think 
a  lot  of  him,  you  know.  They  don't  give  him  no  special 
job,  but  just  tell  him  to  find  something  to  do.  So  he 
opens  doors  for  the  mule  cars  to  go  through,  and  picks 
coal  off  the  tracks,  and  such  things.  He's  a  very  in- 
dustrious old  man.  He  says  he'd  be  cold  if  he  did  n't 
keep  goin'. 

"It's  dirty  work.  You  see  how  black  they  get.  I 
s'pose  it  must  be  good  for  the  soap  factories.  They 
wash  up  as  soon  as  they  get  home,  and  change  their 
clothes — what  they  call  shifting  'em.  Every  week 
they  have  clean  mine  clothes,  except  the  coat.  That 
don't  get  very  dirty  because  they  don't  keep  it  on  while 
they're  workin'.  Their  clothes  are  not  so  hard  to  wash 
as  those  of  men  who  are  in  mills.  The  coal  dust  comes 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  141 

right  out  unless  they've  got  ile  on  their  clothes.  They 
wear  a  lamp  on  the  front  of  their  caps,  and  sometimes 
they  carry  ile  for  it  in  one  of  their  pockets  and  very 
likely  a  little  of  the  ile  leaks  out  or  they  spill  it  on  them- 
selves. 

"I  went  into  the  mine  once  with  my  man  long  ago, 
but  not  so  far  that  I  could  n't  look  back  and  see  a 
little  glimpse  of  daylight.  He  worked  away,  and  by 
and  by  he  says,  'Now  I'll  put  off  a  little  blast  and  let 
you  hear  it;'  and  bang  it  went. 

"I  was  scared.  I  thought  I  was  gone.  Everything 
shook  and  shook  and  shook.  It  shook  so  heavy  and 
shook  so  hard  it  seemed  like  the  whole  earth  was  comin' 
down.  I  thought  it  was  the  last  of  me,  and  the  world 
was  at  an  end,  and  I  says  to  myself,  'If  I  was  a  man  I 
would  n't  be  workin'  in  a  mine.' 

"But  the  men  who  are  used  to  it  would  n't  work 
anywhere  else.  They  can  earn  more  than  at  most  other 
jobs.  We  have  silk  mills  around  here,  but  they  don't 
pay  any  wages  at  all.  One  good  thing  about  mining  is 
that  it  don't  wear  the  men  out.  Generally  their  health 
is  pretty  good,  but  sometimes  the  dust  gets  down  on 
their  lungs  and  they  take  the  miner's  asthma  and  are 
short  of  wind,  you  know.  When  they  have  it  bad  they 
have  to  stop.  They  may  take  medicine  to  kind  of  ease 
them,  but  there's  no  cure  for  it. 

"Then,  too,  we  have  accidents  in  the  mines.  Yes, 
indeed.  My  son-in-law  came  in  kilt  to  me,  and  my 
brother  was  kilt  dead,  and  only  five  months  between 


142    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

'em.  But  it's  very  seldom  we  have  bad  accidents  now. 
Of  course,  they  can't  be  helped  once  in  a  while.  Acci- 
dents happen  in  every  place — in  the  mines,  and  on  the 
railroads,  and  around  the  water.  There's  no  safe  place 
to  work  unless  it  is  in  the  stores,  and  I've  heard  that 
people  get  kilt  there  with  the  elevators." 

The  old  woman  now  got  on  her  feet  with  considerable 
effort,  shook  the  wrinkles  and  the  dust  out  of  her  skirts 
and  remarked  that  it  was  getting  cold  and  she  must 
go  in,  but  she  paused  to  ask  me  if  I  had  seen  the 
Forty  Foot  Falls  up  on  the  mountain.  "People  come 
clear  from  Philadelphia  to  see  those  falls,"  she  said. 
"Philadelphia,  that's  a  city — did  n't  you  ever  hear 
of  it? 

"There's  an  Indian  cave  up  on  the  mountain,  too, 
but  people  are  afraid  to  go  in  it.  The  Indians  used  to 
say  that  there  was  more  gold  around  here  than  out 
West.  They  must  have  meant  the  coal.  That  cave  is 
only  three  miles  away,  but  we  have  great  wild  moun- 
tains here — oh  dear!  acres  and  acres  of  woods;  I 
would  n't  care  to  go  there." 

Farther  down  the  hill  was  a  rude  little  building  that 
served  as  a  grocer's  storehouse.  A  man  was  busy  inside 
putting  things  in  order  and  mending  some  flour  bags. 
I  sat  down  in  the  doorway,  and  while  he  worked  we 
talked.  At  first  we  commented  on  some  little  boys  who 
were  playing  ball  in  the  street  watched  by  a  bunch  of 
smaller  children  that  included  a  baby  in  a  baby  car- 
riage. They  had  a  ragged  old  ball,  and  some  nonde- 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  143 

script  sticks  served  for  bats.  One  of  the  liveliest  play- 
ers was  a  poor  fellow  who  had  lost  a  leg.  He  used  one 
of  his  crutches  for  a  bat,  and  when  he  hit  the  ball  or 
had  struck  at  it  three  times  he  put  the  crutch  to  its 
intended  use,  and  away  he  hobbled  to  the  base  with 
astonishing  celerity. 

A  drunken  man  staggered  past,  and  the  grocer's 
clerk  exclaimed:  "My!  this  would  be  a  rich  country  if 
it  was  n't  for  the  saloons;  and  if  all  the  men  were  like 
me  the  saloon-keepers  would  have  to  go  to  work  for  a 
living.  The  saloons  have  a  harvest  time  every  day  and 
every  night,  and  if  a  customer  don't  have  money  they'll 
trust  him,  for  it's  well  known  that  a  man  will  pay  his 
whiskey  bill  before  he  will  any  other.  He'll  buy  drink 
whether  work  is  slack  or  not  and  he'll  generally  keep 
good-natured  while  he's  in  the  saloon  half  drunk,  but 
when  he  comes  home,  if  everything  ain't  just  so  he's 
ugly. 

"The  people  here  are  well  off  in  one  way — they 
don't  any  of  'em  need  to  pay  a  cent  for  their  fuel.  Those 
that  ain't  lazy  get  it  from  the  culm  heaps.  Some  who 
can  afford  to  buy  picks  all  their  coal.  Yes,  people  with 
a  pretty  good  bank  account  will  go  to  the  culm  bank 
for  their  fuel  supply.  The  more  wealth  they  have  the 
more  they  economize  and  try  to  make.  There's  cellars 
where  you'd  find  enough  coal  to  do  'em  a  couple  of  years. 
We  used  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  the  dumps  with  wagons 
to  bring  away  coal,  but  men  got  to  make  a  business  of 
it,  so  the  company  put  a  stop  to  that.  These  foreign 


144    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

women  is  great  people  to  pick  coal,  and  they  back  it 
home  for  the  most  part. 

"The  culm  piles  are  valuable,  and  a  good  share  of 
what's  in  'em  can  be  broken  up  and  sold.  Nearly  all 
coal  has  got  more  or  less  slate  in  it,  but  this  boney  coal,  as 
we  call  it,  that's  in  the  dumps  can  be  mixed  with  good 
coal,  and  one  will  sell  the  other.  In  the  early  days  there 
was  no  sale  for  the  finer  coal,  and  they'd  throw  it  away. 
This  big  dump  on  the  edge  of  the  town  has  been  growing 
for  forty  years,  and  I  dare  say  that  in  the  bottom  you'd 
find  pea  coal  and  chestnut — lots  of  it.  Now  they  use 
down  to  buckwheat  and  birdseye  sizes. 

"Besides  getting  fine  coal,  there's  a  chance  to  make 
a  good  bit  here  pickin'  huckleberries.  If  there's  a 
slack  time  in  the  mines  during  the  berry  season,  the 
men  go  right  out  with  the  women  and  children.  I've 
known  a  big  family  to  make  five  dollars  in  a  day. 
They'll  be  goin'  up  along  the  mountains  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  mornin'.  Late  in  the  day  you'll  see  'em  comin' 
back.  Often  a  woman  will  have  her  berries  in  a  pan 
such  as  is  used  to  wash  dishes  in,  and  she'll  carry  that 
pan  balanced  on  her  head  with  a  little  cloth  underneath 
to  keep  it  from  huitin'.  She  has  to  come  down  some 
awful  steep  places,  but  she'll  walk  right  along  with  her 
two  hands  folded.  They  sell  the  berries  to  a  man  here 
who's  a  flowerist — has  a  flower  house  you  understand — 
and  he  ships  'em  to  the  cities.  He  buys  'em  by  the 
quart,  and  sells  'em  by  weight.  I  guess  he  gets  a  little 
more  measure  that  way.  A  quart  will  maybe  make  a 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  145 

quart  and  a  half.  Our  mountains  have  been  so  cut  off 
and  burned  over  that  huckleberries  is  about  all  they're 
good  for,  though  once  in  a  while  someone  brings  down 
a  backload  of  dead  sticks  for  to  kindle  the  fire." 

The  work  in  the  storehouse  was  now  finished,  the 
dusk  of  evening  was  thickening,  and  the  squad  of  ball- 
players in  the  street  had  dispersed.  I  went  with  the 
grocer's  clerk  to  the  adjacent  store  where  the  lights  had 
been  lit.  Just  inside,  only  a  few  feet  from  the  entrance, 
sat  the  proprietor,  a  heavy  elderly  man  with  his  hat  on 
his  head  and  a  cane  in  his  hand.  I  thought  he  looked 
rather  grim  and  crusty,  but  I  presently  observed  that 
his  face  could  light  up  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  I  had  no 
further  doubts  as  to  his  being  good-humored  and  kindly 
at  heart.  People  were  constantly  dropping  in  to  get 
groceries.  Most  of  them  were  children  sent  by  their 
mothers.  The  youngsters  invariably  came  to  an  awed 
stop  in  front  of  the  old  man,  and  he  called  them  by 
name  and  demanded  what  they  wanted,  and  then  he 
repeated  the  items  of  their  requests  to  an  alert  young 
woman  behind  the  counter.  She  served  them  and 
entered  the  charges  in  the  little  passbooks  the  children 
brought,  and  in  a  large  store  account  book.  The 
customers  seemed  never  to  pay  cash,  and  I  asked  the 
grocer  the  reason. 

"It's  the  habit,"  he  said.  "The  men  get  their  wages 
twice  a  month,  and  the  majority  of  'em  will  hand  most 
of  the  money  to  their  women,  who  will  come  in  and  pay 
me.  But  mind  you,  they  won't  kill  themselves  hurry- 


146    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

ing  to  get  here  with  it,  or  by  the  size  of  the  load  they 
bring.  Many  a  one  don't  square  up.  I've  been  selling 
on  credit  for  the  last  thirty-two  years,  and  if  I  tell  the 
slow  ones  that  they  must  pay  they  are  quick  to  give 
me  a  rap,  and  that's  the  thanks  I  get  for  trusting  'em. 
They'd  crush  my  bones  in  the  grave.  Ah,  yes!  if  I  dun 
them  they  tell  me  to  go  where  I  don't  want  to  go — tell 
me  to  go  to  the  last  place  where  I  would  want  to  go; 
and  they  name  the  place  whether  they  know  anything 
about  it  or  not.  Some  move  away  and  leave  a  dirty 
book  behind  them,  and  there  are  others  I  can't  collect 
from  unless  I  give  the  case  to  a  lawyer;  and  if  I  do 
that  there's  very  little  comin'  to  me  after  he  gets 
through." 

Just  then  a  small  redheaded  boy  came  from  outside 
and  held  the  door  half  open  while  he  looked  in.  The 
grocer  ordered  him  to  go  away,  and  the  boy  paid  no 
attention  to  this  command.  The  old  man  shook  his 
cane  at  the  lad  with  no  better  result.  "You'd  better 
stand  there  yet  awhile!"  the  storekeeper  exclaimed, 
getting  onto  his  feet  and  lurching  belligerently  toward 
the  door.  The  boy  vanished. 

"Give  me  some  tobacco,"  the  old  man  said  to  his 
clerk  as  he  settled  back  into  his  chair. 

He  filled  and  lit  his  pipe,  and  after  a  few  puffs  re- 
gained his  equanimity.  Then  he  turned  to  me  and 
remarked:  "When  I  came  here  in  1854  tne  valley  was 
all  woods  and  laurel.  There  were  big  trees  everywhere 
—hemlock,  pine,  and  ash — and  you  could  build  a  house 


A  miner  and  an  above-ground  friend 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  147 

out  of  one  of  them  trees  they  were  so  large  and  so  long. 
You'd  be  under  the  shade  wherever  you  went,  and  you 
did  n't  need  an  umbrella  in  the  hardest  rain  that  come, 
for  the  thick  leaves  overhead  would  keep  the  water  off 
from  you.  We'd  let  our  hogs  run  in  the  woods  from 
April  to  November,  and  they'd  take  care  of  themselves 
—they  would,  sir.  Our  cows,  too,  could  go  where  they 
pleased  and  be  in  no  danger  from  the  railroads.  Now, 
good  gracious!  it's  all  railroads,  you  might  say,  here  in 
the  valley.  The  best  of  the  trees  was  carried  away  to 
the  sawmills,  and  afterward  you  could  get  no  income 
from  the  land  it  was  so  poor,  and  a  good  deal  of  it  was 
sold  for  taxes. 

"At  first  I  worked  for  sixty-three  cents  a  day — ten 
hours,  too — ten  long  hours,  but  when  the  Civil  War 
broke  out  wages  boomed  up.  I'll  tell  you  what  miners 
get  now.  Two  men  work  together — a  miner  and  a 
laborer.  The  miner  blasts  the  coal  loose,  and  the  other 
fellow  loads  it.  If  they  are  in  a  good  place  the  miner 
will  perhaps  knock  enough  down  in  a  couple  of  hours 
for  the  other  to  handle,  and  he's  earned  three  and  a 
half  or  four  dollars.  '  He  used  to  go  off  home  then,  but 
now,  for  fear  of  accidents  to  the  laborer,  he  has  to  stay 
till  the  loading  is  done.  The  laborer  will  earn  close  to 
three  dollars,  but  there's  times  when  they're  working 
where  the  place  is  not  so  good,  or  they  can't  get  cars 
to  load.  Then  you  may  hear  a  man  say  he  has  n't 
made  but  a  dollar  that  day. 

"One  advantage  of  the  job  is  that  you  are  your  own 


148    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

master.  There's  no  boss  standing  over  you.  Besides, 
you  are  away  from  the  cold  in  winter  time,  and  away 
from  the  heat  in  summer  time.  But  you  have  the  dis- 
comfort of  wet  clothing.  The  water  is  dripping  from 
the  roof  all  the  time  onto  your  back.  Maybe  you 
would  n't  be  in  there  ten  minutes  until  you'd  be  like 
they'd  kept  puttin'  the  hose  on  you  all  day,  but  you 
don't  mind  that  while  you're  busy.  In  winter,  when  a 
man  comes  out,  his  pants  often  freeze  to  his  legs  before 
he  gets  home.  Very  likely  he'll  stop  in  at  a  saloon  and 
stay  awhile  by  the  stove,  and  drink  a  couple  of  glasses 
of  beer.  Then  he's  hot  inside  and  out.  When  it's  very 
warm  in  summer,  and  he  comes  up  from  the  cool  mine 
he  has  to  sit  down  in  the  shade  and  get  used  to  the 
change  a  little  or  he'd  be  sunstruck. 

"A  miner  is  a  miner  all  his  life,  and  as  a  general  thing 
he  brings  up  his  boys  to  do  the  same  work.  First  the 
boys  are  put  into  the  breakers,  and  from  those  they  go 
into  the  mines.  They  are  brought  up  to  that  one  thing, 
and  they  think  they  could  n't  do  anything  else,  and 
often  they  won't  try.  If  a  man  can't  get  his  special 
kind  of  a  job  he'll  tramp  the  country  through. 

"On  the  whole  the  people  here  are  prosperous,  and 
there's  five  times  as  many  own  their  homes  as  there 
are  renters;  but  when  a  miner  has  to  support  a  big 
family  he's  got  all  he  wants  to  do  to  keep  his  head  above 
water  with  prices  as  they  are  nowadays." 

So  I  gathered  from  what  the  old  grocer  and  others 
said,  and  from  my  own  observation,  that  life  among 


A  Vale  of  Anthracite  149 

the  anthracite  workers  is  a  mixture  of  cloud  and  sun- 
shine just  as  it  is  elsewhere.  They  are  not  satisfied, 
yet  nevertheless  there  are  no  other  workers  with  whom 
they  would  willingly  change  places. 

NOTES. — Historically,  the  most  interesting  portion  of  the  anthra- 
cite coal  district  is  the  Wyoming  Valley.  The  largest  town  in  the 
valley  is  Wilkes-Barre,  named  in  honor  of  the  two  chief  upholders 
of  American  liberty  in  Parliament.  The  name  of  the  valley  is  de- 
rived from  an  Indian  word  that  means  "large  plains."  It  applies  to 
an  expansion  of  the  Susquehanna  basin  about  20  miles  long  and  4 
or  5  broad.  Were  it  not  for  the  coal  this  gentle  valley  would  have  a 
good  deal  of  pastoral  charm. 

Near  Wilkes-Barre,  in  July,  1778,  occurred  one  of  the  most 
harrowing  of  Indian  massacres.  A  force  of  British  troops  and  In- 
dians entered  the  valley,  defeated  the  settlers,  and  the  massacre 
followed.  The  British  officers  could  not  restrain  their  savage  allies, 
who  butchered  some  300  men,  women  and  children.  A  monument, 
four  miles  north  of  the  town,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  marks 
the  scene  of  the  battle.  Three  miles  farther  on  is  Queen  Esther's 
Rock,  where  the  half-breed  queen  of  the  Senecas  tomahawked  14 
defenceless  prisoners. 

The  original  fireplace  in  which  anthracite  coal  was  first  burned 
in  1808  is  preserved  at  the  oldfFall  House  on  Washington  Street  in 
Wilkes-Barre.  Many  relics  of  local  Indian  and  pioneer  life  can 
be  seen  at  the  Wyoming  Historical  and  Geological  Society  rooms. 
The  height  known  as  Giant's  Despair,  east  of  the  city,  is  the  scene 
of  the  annual  hill-climb  of  the  Wilkes-Barre  Automobile  Club. 
The  valley  has  paved  roads  from  end  to  end. 

A  particularly  fine  scenic  route  is  that  from  Wilkes-Barre  to 
Elmira,  N.  Y.,  109  miles.  There  are  good  dirt  roads  much  of  the 
way,  but  with  some  steep  hills  that  require  great  care  on  the  part  of 
the  motorist  when  the  roadway  is  wet. 

The  route  to  Scranton,  18  miles  north,  by  way  of  Pittston,  is 


150    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

through  the  heart  of  the  Anthracite  region  and  abounds  in  collieries 
and  villages  of  foreign  laborers.  For  much  of  the  way  the  road  is 
rough  and  poor.  The  town  streets  are  narrow,  and  are  crowded 
with  children  and  animals,  and  there  are  frequent  dangerous  rail- 
road crossings. 


VII 


A    FAMOUS    BATTLEFIELD 

I  WAS  on  my  way  to  Gettysburg.  An  elderly  man 
got  in  at  one  of  the  stops  of  the  train  and  occupied 
a  seat  with  me.  He  was  garrulously  inclined  and 
soon  was  telling  me  of  some  of  his  varied  experiences 
and  opinions,  but  he  had  not  discoursed  long  when  he 
remarked:  "If  it's  all  the  same  to  you  I  want  to  change 
places.  I'll  tell  you  why.  We're  all  creatures  of  habit, 
and  I  chew  tobacco.  I  want  to  sit  next  to  the  window 
so  I  can  spit  out. 

"See  here,  my  friend,"  he  continued  as  he  settled 
down  where  I  had  been,  "I  make  it  a  rule  when  I  meet 
a  better-looking  man  than  myself  to  give  him  a  lemon 
drop." 

He  took  a  paper  bag  from  his  pocket,  and  I  accepted 
a  lemon  drop.  "I  s'pose  I've  bought  hundreds  of  pounds 
of  'em,"  he  added.  "Did  you  say  you  was  goin'  to 
Gettysburg?  I  fought  there  in  the  great  three  days' 
battle  that  began  July  first,  1863.  Look  at  this,"  and 
he  showed  me  a  pension  paper;  "that's  my  name — 
Cap'n  Eli  Billings.  And  here's  a  picture  of  three  of  my 
grandsons.  That  smallest  boy  is  named  after  me — he's 
a  brick.  They're  all  good  boys,  but  I'm  sorry  to  say 
they've  got  a  craze  to  go  to  all  the  moving  picture  shows 


152    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

that  come  along.  I  approve  of  such  shows  when  they're 
proper,  but  they  give  too  many  cowboy  and  Indian 
subjects.  That  ought  to  be  stopped.  It  creates  a  dis- 
position to  have  revolvers,  and  I  see  my  grandsons 
playing  fighting  and  saying  to  each  other,  'I'll  shoot 
you.  I'll  kill  you.'  It's  detrimental. 

"Speakin'  of  the  war,  I  was  in  the  whole  of  it  right 
smack  from  the  start.  I  enlisted  the  day  after  Sumter 
was  fired  on,  and  I  served  to  the  very  end.  More  than 
a  hundred  days  I  was  under  fire,  yet  there  was  never  a 
ball  drew  blood  on  me.  I  heard  many  of  'em  pass  near 
my  head,  and  they  went  through  my  clothes  in  detach- 
ments. A  minie  ball  goes  'Zip!'  with  the  same  sound  as 
you  make  on  a  fiddle  by  giving  the  E  string  a  pick  and 
running  your  finger  up  on  it;  and  the  sound  of  a  shell 
is  as  if  it  said: 

WHERE  ARE  YOU? 

Where  are  you? 
Where  are  you? 

"Where  are  you?  FOUND    YOU!" 

That  last  is  when  it  bursts. 

"I  used  to  teach  a  music  school,  and  I  played  a  bass 
viol  in  the  Methodist  Church.  Well,  our  division  got 
to  Gettysburg  on  the  second  day  about  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  We  marched  into  a  field  and  had 
breakfast,  and  quite  a  good  many  done  some  washing 
and  hung  the  things  out  to  dry.  We  was  lyin'  around 


A  Famous  Battlefield  153 

takin'  it  easy  when  the  long  roll  sounded.  That  meant 
to  fall  in  and  get  ready  to  move.  So  we  packed  up  and 
then  double-quicked  it  to  Little  Round  Top.  From 
there  we  made  three  charges  across  the  swampy  Valley 
of  Death  and  past,  the  wild  rocks  of  the  Devil's  Den. 
On  one  of  the  charges  I  came  across  Sam  Ralston  of 
our  town  goin'  to  the  rear.  'Oh!  Eli,'  he  says,  'our 
whole  army  is  demoralized.' 

"'Sam,'  I  says,  'don't  think  it,  just  because  you're 
demoralized.' 

"He  was  a  notorious  coward  and  was  always  dropping 
out  of  the  ranks  during  a  battle,  if  he  did  n't  avoid  it 
altogether  by  claimin'  he  was  sick  before  it  began. 

"I'll  tell  you  a  little  joke.  You  know  General  Sher- 
man said,  'War  is  hell.'  If  that  is  so,  what  was  us  fellers 
that  fought  the  battles?  Why  we  was  nothing  more  or 
less  than  the  devil's  imps.  Sherman  made  a  mistake. 

"After  the  war  ended  someone  wrote  to  me  to  ask  if 
I  commanded  a  company  in  the  battle  of  Gettysburg. 
I  did  n't  know  whether  I  did  or  not.  I  wa'n't  thinkin' 
about  that  or  about  the  fightin'.  I  did  my  duty,  but 
the  main  thing  that  concerned  me  was  to  keep  close  to 
Jim  Mellin.  He  had  a  grudge  against  me,  and  I  was 
afraid  he'd  take  advantage  of  the  confusion  of  the  battle 
to  be  revenged.  So  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be  so  near 
that  I  could  grab  him  if  he  tried  to  shoot  me.  But  I 
had  no  trouble  at  all  with  him,  and  at  the  end  of  our 
third  charge  he  shook  hands  with  me  and  said,  'Eli, 
did  n't  we  drive  'em!' 


154    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"This  was  the  way  his  bad  feeling  toward  me  begun: 
I  was  promoted  to  be  sergeant,  and  had  to  see  that  every 
man  took  his  turn  at  squad  duty,  and  one  of  the  first 
things  I  did  after  my  promotion  was  to  detail  Jim  to  be 
on  campguard.  He  swore  that  he  would  n't.  'Look  a' 
here,'  I  said,  'it'll  go  hard  with  you  if  you  don't.' 

'"I  don't  care  a  hang,'  says  he,  'I  won't  mount 
guard.' 

"Course  military  is  military,  and  I  reported  to  the 
colonel.  He  had  Jim  tried  by  a  court-martial,  and  says 
to  him  at  the  conclusion  of  it:  'You  are  under  the 
sergeant's  orders,  and  those  orders  must  be  obeyed. 
I  sentence  you  to  thirty  days  close  confinement  in  the 
guard-house  and  to  forfeit  one  month's  pay.' 

"At  the  end  of  the  thirty  days  I  was  sent  to  the  guard- 
house to  have  Jim  come  and  sign  the  payroll  for  the 
month  he'd  forfeited,  but  Jim  said,  'I  won't  go  with 
you,  and  I'll  be  blessed  if  you  can  take  me.' 

"That  stirred  my  ire.  I  went  and  got  two  men,  and 
I  had  them  come  with  me  all  armed  and  ready  for 
business.  As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  guardhouse  I  said 
to  'em,  'This  man  is  ordered  to  go  and  sign  the  payroll. 
If  he  don't  go  when  I  tell  him  to,  put  the  bayonet  right 
into  him.  You'll  do  it,  too,  or  I'll  report  you.'  Then  I 
very  calmly  said,  'Jim,  you  go;'  and  he  went. 

But  he  was  mad  and  said  he'd  kill  me,  and  I  thought 
very  likely  he  would  if  he  got  a  good  chance.  That's  a 
sample  of  the  ugly  side  of  war.  Now,  I'll  give  you  a 
sample  of  the  pleasant  side.  It's  a  little  romance. 


A  Famous  Battlefield  155 

While  our  army  was  here  in  Pennsylvania,  me  and  five 
other  fellers  was  given  a  day  off  and  we  went  for  a  long 
walk  out  into  the  country.  When  we  started  back  we 
conversed  together  about  the  chance  of  getting  some- 
thing to  eat  at  the  houses  along  the  road,  for  we  was 
awful  tired  of  hardtack  it  was  so  dry  and  so  often  had 
worms  in  it.  I  was  chosen  to  stop  at  the  next  house, 
and  the  others  were  to  come  right  along  behind  to  sup- 
port me.  Well,  I  rang  the  doorbell,  and  a  nice  young 
lady  came  to  see  who  was  there.  My  courage  kind  o' 
failed  me,  but  I  made  her  a  military  salute,  and  says, 
'Will  you  be  so  kind  and  condescending  as  to  give  us 
some-er-water  to  drink?' 

"I  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  ask  for  food.  She 
brought  us  a  pitcher  of  ice-water,  and  she  was  so 
friendly  we  all  see  that  she'd  have  been  glad  to  give  us 
food  if  I'd  only  asked  for  it.  Soon  we  went  on,  and  by 
and  by  we  passed  over  a  hill,  and  found  a  picnic  in 
progress  close  by  the  road 'in  a  grove.  There  was  a 
bunch  of  older  people  in  one  place,  and  children  in 
another,  and  they  insisted  we  should  stop  and  eat  with 
them.  We  knew  they  would  n't  take,  'No,'  from  us, 
so  we  tried  to  excuse  ourselves,  and  then  went  along 
with  'em.  But  each  of  the  two  parties  wanted  us,  and 
finally  I  told  the  children  that  we'd  only  eat  half  enough 
with  the  older  people,  and  come  back  and  finish  with 
them.  They  said  they'd  go  along  and  tell  us  when  we'd 
got  half  enough.  A  little  girl  named  Maggie — a  black- 
eyed,  smart  little  thing,  nine  years  old — kept  with 


156    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

me,  and  after  I'd  eaten  a  while  she  begun  to  ask  if  I 
had  n't  got  half  enough.  'No,'  I  said,  'I'm  pretty 
hungry.' 

"At  last,  however,  we  soldiers  went  and  sat  down 
with  the  children  to  finish  our  feast.  When  I'd  eaten 
about  all  I  wanted  I  said  to  myself,  'I'll  get  out  of  this 
trundlebed  trash.'  But  as  I  was  rising  Maggie  flung 
her  arms  round  my  neck  and  made  me  stay.  I  got 
acquainted  with  her  folks  at  the  picnic,  and  they  were 
very  cordial,  and  once  or  twice  in  the  days  that  followed 
I  was  at  their  home.  Later  I  had  typhoid  fever,  and 
while  I  was  recovering  I  went  and  stayed  with  them.  I 
married  when  the  war  was  over,  and  pretty  soon  after- 
ward my  wife  and  I  went  to  visit  Maggie's  folks.  But 
Maggie,  who'd  always  been  specially  friendly  with  me, 
would  n't  hardly  speak  to  either  of  us.  I  asked  her 
mother  what  was  the  matter,  and  she  said  it  was  be- 
cause of  my  wife.  Yes,  sir,  back  in  the  war  that  little 
girl  of  nine  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  soldier  of  twenty- 
three.  Time  passed  on  and  she  married  and  went  to 
live  in  New  York.  But  I've  always  had  a  certain  feeling 
of  affection  for  her,  and  in  late  years  we've  occasionally 
written  to  each  other.  Now  I'm  a  widower,  and  if 
Maggie  was  a  widow  woman,  and  she  would  have  me, 
I  would  n't  marry  any  other  woman  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  But  the  last  time  she  wrote  she  said  her  head 
troubled  her  terribly  and  she  was  sick  and  tired  of 
takin'  medicine.  Her  letters  have  stopped,  and  I  think 
she's  dead." 


A  Famous  Battlefield  157 

My  companion  reached  his  destination  about  this 
time,  and  we  parted,  and  a  little  later  I  arrived  at 
Gettysburg.  The  town  is  a  prosperous  county-seat  of 
four  thousand  inhabitants — about  the  same  number 
it  had  in  wartime.  It  has  changed  in  the  intervening 
years,  yet  much  of  the  old  still  remains,  and  it  has  a 
serenity  and  quaintness  that  are  very  charming.  In 
the  business  center  is  an  open  market  square.  Thither 
the  farmers  resort  in  the  early  morning  on  the  three 
market  days  of  the  week,  back  their  wagons  up  to  the 
sidewalks,  display  their  bags  and  boxes  of  fruits  and 
vegetables  and  crates  of  chickens  and  dicker  with  the 
townspeople  who  hover  about  examining  and  purchas- 
ing. All  the  streets  are  lined  with  trees,  which,  with 
their  suggestion  of  cooling  shade  in  the  heat  of  summer, 
give  the  place  a  touch  of  the  idyllic.  The  houses  are 
very  apt  to  be  snug  to  the  uneven  brick  walks,  and  el- 
bow each  other  quite  closely.  Porches,  steps,  and  little 
porticos  extend  out  from  the  front  of  the  residences  onto 
the  walks,  and  the  people  sit  on  them  in  summer  even- 
ings. They  make  an  interesting  architectural  feature, 
and  they  promote  comfort  and  sociability.  Most  of 
the  houses  had  gardens  behind  them,  and  though  it 
was  mid-October  there  had  as  yet  been  no  frost,  and 
they  were  full  of  green  growing  things  and  a  wealth  of 
gay  blossoms.  Little  alleys  branched  off  from  the  main 
streets,  and  appealed  agreeably  to  the  eye  with  their 
whitewashed  walls  and  fences  contrasting  with  the 
vines  and  flowers  and  foliage  that  overhung  them. 


158    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Many  of  the  town  buildings  date  back  to  war  days,  and 
among  these  are  several  built  of  logs.  One  log  structure 
is  a  negro  store.  Its  commercial  character  was  made 
apparent  by  a  few  lonesome  tomatoes  and  cabbages  on 
a  stand  outside,  and  by  a  liberal  display  of  advertising 
posters  tacked  up  on  the  whitewashed  logs.  Here  and 
there  I  observed  holes  in  the  logs  made  by  bullets  in 
that  long-gone  battle.  I  thought  the  holes  seemed 
rather  large,  but  the  proprietor  said  that  was  the  result 
of  the  boys  digging  out  the  bullets  with  their  jack- 
knive. 

Many  another  town  building  bears  the  scars  of  battle, 
yet  not  one  was  intentionally  harmed  or  seriously  dam- 
aged except  an  outlying  tavern.  "Some  Rebel  sharp- 
shooters got  into  that,"  my  informant  said,  "and  they 
were  picking  off  the  Union  officers.  So  the  Federals 
trained  their  cannon  on  it  and  smashed  it  all  to  pieces. 
I'll  tell  you  what  the  conditions  were  here.  Before  the 
war  this  was  a  great  carriage-building  town,  and  our 
trade  was  in  the  South.  We'd  sell  and  take  notes,  and 
the  payment  was  dependent  on  the  cotton  and  tobacco. 
If  either  crop  was  a  failure  the  notes  would  go  over  for 
another  year.  The  war  meant  ruin.  Our  market  was 
gone,  and  the  money  due  us  could  n't  be  collected. 
My  father  got  sixty-five  dollars  out  of  about  twenty- 
six  thousand. 

"When  Lee  came  marching  up  in  this  direction  the 
goods  in  the  stores  were  loaded  on  wagons  and  carted 
off,  and  some  of  the  women  and  children  struck  out  for 


A  Famous  Battlefield  159 

safety  along  the  Baltimore  Pike,  hoofing  it  and  taking 
with  them  what  they  could  carry. 

"A  good  many  thought  the  rebels  could  n't  drive 
our  soldiers,  but  they  did  the  first  day  of  the  battle, 
and  as  our  troops  retreated  through  the  town  they 
hollered,  'Citizens,  to  your  cellars!'  That  was  in  the 
afternoon.  In  the  earlier  part  of  the  day  lots  of  people 
got  up  on  the  housetops  to  watch  the  fighting. 

"An  hour  after  it  began  every  public  building  in  the 
place  was  a  hospital,  and  soon  every  barn  and  shed 
likewise,  and  the  town  women  were  kept  busy  cooking 
for  the  wounded. 

"I  worked  in  a  store.  The  proprietors  were  Quakers, 
and  therefore  non-combatants,  and  they  had  gone 
away.  Food  was  scarce,  but  I  took  some  salt  bacon, 
chopped  it  in  small  pieces  and  mixed  it  up  with  corn 
flour  for  flapjacks.  Those  flapjacks  were  a  rather 
palatable  article.  And  I  toasted  a  little  rye,  and  poured 
some  molasses  into  a  pan  and  sort  of  burnt  it,  and  then 
I  stirred  the  rice  and  molasses  up  together,  and  after 
I'd  put  some  condensed  milk  to  it  I  had  pretty  fair 
coffee. 

"When  there  was  heavy  cannonading  I'd  go  to  the 
cellar,  and  at  night  I  slept  on  the  floor  downstairs. 
Hundreds  of  houses  had  balls  go  through  their  windows 
and  roofs,  and  once  in  a  while  a  shell  that  was  shot  over 
the  town  fell  short.  Yet  of  all  the  townspeople  just  one 
young  woman  was  killed.  Her  name  was  Jennie  Wade, 
and  its  a  curious  fact  that  she  was  the  only  outspoken 


160    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

rebel  in  Gettysburg.  Jennie  was  a  bright,  pretty  girl, 
but  because  her  father  was  a  Virginian,  she  sided  with 
his  state,  and  from  the  beginning  of  the  war  she 
would  n't  go  out  and  sing  with  the  other  girls  for  our 
soldiers  when  they  were  marching  through  the  town. 
As  a  result  she  was  ostracized.  During  the  battle  she 
was  taking  care  of  her  sister  who  was  sick.  They  had  a 
little  meal  hidden  away  somewhere,  and  while  she  was 
bending  over  mixing  up  some  in  the  bread  trough  that 
she  had  put  in  a  chair,  a  bullet  came  through  the  door, 
struck  her  in  the  back,  and  killed  her. 

In  the  course  of  time,  after  the  war,  all  the  states 
were  putting  up  monuments  to  their  troops  that  were 
engaged  in  the  battle.  As  it  happened,  no  Iowa  troops 
fought  at  Gettysburg,  and  the  people  there  were  not 
altogether  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  not  having  their 
monument  like  the  rest.  Meanwhile,  Jennie  Wade's 
sister  become  head  of  an  important  Iowa  Woman's 
organization,  and  the  project  was  hatched  of  honoring 
this  sister  by  putting  up  a  monument  to  Jennie.  They'd 
got  the  impression  somehow  that  Jennie  was  a  heroine, 
and  that  she  went  out  on  the  battlefield  to  assist  the 
wounded  with  water,  and  was  killed  while  baking  bread 
for  the  soldiers.  So  sentiment  was  worked  up,  and  a 
monument  was  contracted  for  that  represented  her 
as  a  sort  of  angel  of  mercy  with  several  canteens  hung 
from  her  shoulders.  Of  course,  there  was  quite  a  cele- 
bration when  the  monument  was  brought  here  and  set 
up,  and  Gettysburg  was  in  a  predicament.  But  we 


A  Famous  Battlefield  161 

did  n't  let  the  truth  get  the  better  of  our  courtesy,  and 
the  newspapers  and  every  one  kept  quiet." 

The  house  in  which  Jennie  Wade  met  her  death  has 
been  preserved  and  appears  much  as  it  did  in  war  time. 
It  is  a  story  and  a  half  structure  of  brick.  Two  of  the 
lower  rooms  are  open  to  the  public  and  are  full  of  battle 
relics  and  souvenirs.  More  interesting  than  anything 
else  is  the  door  still  in  use  through  which  the  fatal  ball 
passed.  Bullets  picked  up  on  the  battlefield  were 
prominent  among  the  souvenirs  for  sale.  "We  find 
more  or  less  in  our  gardens  every  year,"  the  caretaker 
said,  "but  most  of  'em  come  from  ploughed  farm  fields. 
After  a  rain  is  the  best  time  to  find  'em.  The  dirt  gets 
washed  off,  and  the  bullets  look  like  bluish  lumps  of 
earth.  The  boys  go  out  in  their  gum  boots  to  pick  'em 
up,  and  men  go,  too — lots  of  'em.  You  see  'em  walking 
slowly  along  looking  down  at  the  ground,  and  a  stranger 
would  wonder  what  they  was  about.  The  owners  don't 
like  to  have  'em  tramping  there  it  beats  the  ground 
down  so  hard.  They  sell  the  bullets  to  the  souvenir 
shops." 

The  severest  and  most  critical  fighting  took  place 
only  a  short  distance  southward  out  of  the  town,  and 
when  I  walked  thither  I  found  the  region  as  a  whole 
had  the  aspect  of  a  fertile,  well-tilled  farming  country. 
At  intervals  there  were  groups  of  whitewashed  farm 
buildings  that  contrasted  pleasantly  with  the  crimson 
and  gold  of  the  tree  foliage.  The  land  was  mildly 
rolling,  except  for  a  few  rocky  uplifts  like  Little  and 


1 62    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Big  Roundtop,  but  on  the  western  horizon  were  blue 
lines  of  mountains.  All  over  the  field  of  action  are 
monuments  varying  from  the  small  and  inexpensive 
to  the  imposing  structure  erected  by  the  state  of  Penn- 
sylvania, with  its  tablets  containing  the  names  of  more 
than  thirty  thousand  state  troops  who  were  engaged 
in  the  battle,  and  costing  one  hundred  and  fifty  thous- 
and dollars.  Some  are  graceful  and  beautiful,  but  many 
are  commonplace,  and  the  bronze  or  stone  figures  are 
not  infrequently  of  the  scarecrow  order — that  is,  they 
are  theatrical  in  their  supposedly  heroic  poses  rather 
than  convincingly  human.  Numerous  cannon  are 
placed  at  the  vantage  points  where  the  batteries  were 
in  the  fight,  and  there  are  earth  breastworks  and  stone 
fences  that  figured  in  the  conflict.  The  most  interesting 
house  on  the  battlefield  is  the  little  two  room  log  cabin 
that  Meade  occupied  as  his  headquarters. 

Slender  framework  lookout  towers  have  been  erected 
at  various  points,  but  it  is  more  satisfactory  and  natural 
to  view  the  scene  from  the  boulder-strewn  height  of 
Little  Round  Top  where  some  of  the  fiercest  fighting 
occurred.  There  I  talked  with  one  of  the  veteran 
guardians  of  the  battlefield,  and  he  pointed  out  the 
Valley  of  Death  and  the  Devil's  Den,  and  he  indicated 
the  Bloody  Angle  on  Cemetery  Ridge  where  the  Rebel- 
lion reached  its  flood  tide  when  Pickett  made  his 
disastrous  charge  up  the  long  gentle  slope.  "And  over 
yonder,"  he  said,  "is  where  Longstreet  licked  the  wind 
out  of  Sickles,  who'd  disobeyed  orders  by  failing  to 


The  Devil's  Den 


A  Famous  Battlefield  163 

stop  on  the  battleline.  He  thought  he  could  beat  the 
rebels,  and  he  went  out  with  both  flanks  in  the  air.  One 
of  his  legs  was  shot  away,  and  he  nearly  got  our  whole 
army  defeated.  Yes,  he  lost  his  leg,  but  he  saved  his 
bacon.  A  good  deal  of  talk  was  made  about  his  per- 
formance, and  it  was  only  the  kindness  of  Lincoln's 
heart  that  saved  him  from  a  court  martial." 

A  party  of  sightseers  passed  near  us  in  charge  of  a 
professional  guide.  My  companion  spoke  rather 
scoffingly  of  the  information  the  guide  was  reeling  off. 
"Most  of  those  fellows  are  ignoramuses,  "he  affirmed. 
"They  are  careless,  or  they  exaggerate  in  order  to  make 
what  they  say  interesting.  Day  after  day  they  repeat 
the  same  story  in  the  same  sing-song  fashion.  They 
start  with  it,  and  they  go  through  to  the  finish  whether 
you  want  to  hear  it  or  not.  You  can't  stop  'em.  They 
talk  you  to  death. 

"We  have  a  hundred  thousand  visitors  a  year.  Some 
of  'em  come  scattering,  and  some  come  in  big  parties 
on  excursions.  They  require  watching  because  so 
many  of  'em  kind  o'  want  to  get  a-hold  of  something 
to  carry  away.  If  we  let  'em  alone  they'd  get  every 
monument  there  is  here,  fragment  by  fragment,  and  I 
don't  know  but  they'd  take  Little  Round  Top,  too. 
You  see  that  statue?" 

He  pointed  to  a  bronze  effigy  of  General  Warren 
standing  a  little  out  of  plumb  on  a  great  flat  boulder. 
"Once  we  found  the  spurs  had  been  filed  off,  and  again 
that  the  end  of  the  saber  was  gone.  The  statue  has 


164    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

been  repaired  and  a  sign  has  been  put  up  forbidding 
people  to  get  onto  the  rock.  Yet  they  seem  bound  to 
climb  up  there,  and  I  have  to  warn  them  off.  The  rock 
is  shelly  on  one  side,  and  often  I'll  hear  a  little  tapping, 
and  I'll  go  there  and  find  some  one  has  got  a  stone  and 
is  trying  to  knock  a  piece  loose.  Lots  of  'em  have  a 
hankering  to  carry  off  a  piece  of  the  Den  rocks,  and 
every  now  and  then  we  ketch  a  feller  tryin'  to  scratch 
his  name  on  the  rocks.  They  used  to  write  their  names 
on  these  lookout  towers  when  they  were  first  built. 
The  fools  had  their  names  and  everything  all  over  the 
towers,  and  we  had  to  put  up  notices." 

When  I  had  retraced  my  steps  from  the  battlefield  I 
went  out  from  the  town  eastward  to  where  Rock  Creek 
loiters  through  the  lowlands.  Here  was  an  ancient 
stone  bridge  that  climbed  over  the  stream  in  a  succes- 
sion of  arches,  high  in  the  middle,  and  low  on  either  side. 

Close  by,  in  a  wet  nook  that  had  recently  been 
mowed  with  a  scythe,  was  an  old  farmer  poking  the 
grass  into  piles.  I  accosted  him,  and  we  soon  were 
talking  about  the  great  battle  which  so  overshadows 
all  other  events  in  the  region. 

"As  soon  as  we  heard  that  the  rebels  were  comin% 
he  said,  "there  was  a  powerful  excitement  through 
here.  You  bet  there  was!  and  nearly  everyone  was 
goin'  off  with  their  horses  to  get  'em  across  the  Sus- 
quehanna,  about  forty  miles  away.  Out  where  I  lived, 
quite  a  distance  east  of  the  town,  we  had  a  neighbor, 
formerly  of  Maryland,  named  Jacob  Brown.  He  said: 


A  Famous  Battlefield  165 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  move  my  horses.  I'll  just  tell  the 
Rebels  I'm  from  Maryland  and  that  they  can  examine 
the  records  and  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say.'  But 
the  rebels  took  his  three  horses  without  giving  him  a 
chance  to  prove  he  was  a  Maryland  man.  Jacob 
would  n't  put  confidence  in  no  soldiers  after  that. 

"Some  of  the  troops  stopped  on  his  place  and  started 
their  campfires.  'There  goes  my  rails,'  he  says.  'If 
only  one  or  two  men  was  doin'  it  I'd  talk  to  'em,  but 
there's  a  whole  army;  so  what  can  I  do?' 

"He  was  a  big  stout  man,  and  once  I  heard  him  make 
a  brag  at  a  muster  on  the  drill  field  north  of  the  town 
that  he  could  lick  any  man  under  the  sun.  Well,  he 
was  about  three  parts  in  whiskey  or  perhaps  he 
would  n't  have  been  so  loud  about  it.  He  juked 
around  in  the  crowd  makin'  his  brag  until  a  little  man 
named  Murch  jumped  in  front  of  him  and  said,  'You're 
a  blame  liar;'  and  at  it  they  went.  They  fought  a  good 
while  and  neither  of  'em  said  'Ouch!'  But  at  last 
Murch  got  Bailey  down  on  the  ground  under  him.  He 
pounded  him  well  and  made  him  take  back  his  state- 
ment about  bein'  able  to  lick  any  man  under  the  sun. 

"The  three  days  of  the  Gettysburg  battle  was  an 
anxious  time  for  the  older  people,  but  I  was  young  then. 
I  know  I  slept  all  right.  It  did  n't  bother  me  any  even 
when  the  fightin'  ran  on  into  the  middle  of  the  night. 
One  day  I  clumb  up  in  a  clump  of  chestnut  trees  and 
watched  the  battle  from  a  distance. 

"People  ask  me  if  I  was  in  the  fight  at  Gettysburg, 


166    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

and  I  say,  'No,  but  I  was  just  where  the  bullets  flew 
thick  and  fast.' 

'"And  did  you  get  hit?'  they  say. 

'"There  never  a  ball  touched  me,'  I  say.  'I  was 
where  the  bullets  flew  thick  and  fast,  but  not  until  three 
days  after  the  battle.": 

I  have  mentioned  the  heroine  of  Gettysburg.  The 
battle  also  produced  a  local  town  hero.  This  was  John 
Burns,  an  elderly,  old-fashioned  shoemaker  and  con- 
stable, who  got  out  his  gun  and  went  forth  into  the 
ranks  to  fight  for  his  country.  His  story  is  not,  however, 
universally  accepted  as  fact.  "He  was  a  regular  coward, 
that  man  was,"  one  citizen  informed  me.  "As  con- 
stable, if  he  had  a  hard  case  he  got  some  one  else  to 
discharge  his  duties.  Some  time  after  the  great  fight, 
he  was  showing  a  senator  from  Ohio  around  the  field, 
and  the  senator  says,  'You  were  in  the  battle,  wa'n't 
you  ? ' 

"'No,'  Burns  says. 

"'Why,  yes  you  was,'  says  the  senator,  and  they 
fixed  up  a  fancy  story  between  'em." 

This  illustrates  the  uncertainties  of  even  recent 
history.  I  quote  the  words  of  another  townsman  to 
give  what  is  probably  a  more  accurate  view  of  John 
Burns.  He  said:  "There's  a  couple  of  lunatics  here  in 
this  place  who  spread  that  story  about  Burns  not  being 
in  the  battle,  and  they  did  it  out  of  pure  cussedness. 
It's  a  blame  lie  that  he  did  n't  fight.  He  was  erratic, 
but  he  had  courage  all  right,  and  when  he  set  his  head 


A  Famous  Battlefield  167 

you  could  n't  stop  him.  In  his  early  days  he  drank  a 
good  deal,  but  later  he  became  a  sort  of  temperance 
fanatic.  In  the  poems  that  have  been  written  about 
him  he's  represented  as  going  to  the  battle  in  an  antique 
yellow  vest  and  a  blue  swallow-tail  coat  with  great  gilt 
buttons  on  it.  That's  poetic  licence.  He  was  no  such 
gay  romantic  figure.  The  facts  are  that  he  wore  just 
ordinary  clothes  with  an  old  linen  duster  over  'em.  On 
his  head  he  had  a  bell-crowned  black  felt  hat. 

"Perhaps  you've  heard  of  poisoned  bullets  being 
used  in  the  battle.  Oh  thunder!  that's  all  tommy-rot. 
You'll  find  in  the  base  of  certain  bullets  a  zinc  rivet, 
and  a  lot  of  these  roosters  claim  that  when  a  man  was 
hit  the  rivet  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  bullet  and 
let  loose  some  poison.  The  truth  is  it  was  simply  a 
device  for  keeping  the  guns  clean.  Every  tenth  bullet 
had  that  rivet,  and  the  discharge  flattened  it  a  little  and 
made  it  extend  enough  beyond  the  edges  of  the  lead  to 
clean  the  barrel  as  it  went  out. 

"Another  thing  that  people  talk  folderol  about  is 
Meade's  inaction  after  his  victory.  They  say  he  ought 
to  have  annihilated  Lee.  But  the  two  armies  were  very 
evenly  matched.  If  Meade  had  done  the  attacking  here 
at  Gettysburg  he'd  have  been  licked  out  of  his  boots. 
After  the  battle  it  would  n't  have  been  wise  to  follow 
Lee  closely  because  he  knew  the  mountain  passes  by 
which  he  retreated  much  better  than  Meade  did.  Be- 
sides, Meade  was  hampered  by  a  lot  of  old  maids  and 
grandmothers  down  there  in  Washington.  How  can 


1 68    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

you  expect  a  board  of  strategy,  studying  maps  in  the 
government  offices,  far  from  the  field  of  action,  would 
have  any  value?  They  ought  to  have  had  their  blamed 
heads  blown  off.  They  gave  the  men  in  the  field  no 
power,  and  again  and  again  let  'em  get  defeated  while 
waiting  for  the  strategy  board's  orders.  There's  where 
Grant  had  the  advantage  of  his  predecessors.  He 
would  n't  be  dictated  to  by  a  board  of  inferior  and 
timid  officers  at  a  distance." 

NOTES. — Gettysburg  is  only  7  miles  from  the  boundary  between 
Pennsylvania  and  Maryland,  which  marked  the  northern  limit  of 
slavery  before  the  war.  The  town  itself  is  interestingly  quaint,  and 
the  adjacent  battlefield  was  the  scene  of  what  is  regarded  as  the 
chief  contest  of  the  Civil  War — the  turning-point  of  the  Rebellion. 
The  struggle  was  between  80,000  Union  troops  and  73,000  Con- 
federates. In  no  other  battle  of  the  war  were  as  large  numbers 
actually  engaged.  The  Union  loss  in  killed,  wounded,  and  missing 
was  23,000,  the  Confederate  loss,  20,000. 

On  the  southern  borders  of  the  town  is  a  national  cemetery,  at 
the  dedication  of  which  Lincoln  made  the  famous  20  line  address 
which  is  considered  his  most  immortal  utterance.  Beyond  the 
cemetery  is  the  portion  of  the  battlefield  that  was  most  hotly  con- 
tested, including  Little  Round  Top,  the  Valley  of  Death,  the  Devil's 
Den,  and  the  Bloody  Angle.  A  good  walker  can  visit  all  the  more 
important  points  comfortably  on  foot,  but  many  will  prefer  to  hire 
carriages  or  to  take  advantage  of  a  trolley  line  that  traverses  the 
battleground.  Everywhere  on  its  25  square  miles  are  monuments 
— over  400  of  them  in  all,  and  fully  #7,000,000  have  been  expended 
on  them  and  the  grounds.  Probably  no  other  battlefield  in  the 
world  has  been  marked  with  such  care  and  completeness. 

The  main  motor  routes  out  of  Gettysburg  are  these:  North  to 
Harrisburg,  38  miles,  most  of  the  way  a  fair  road;  east  to  Phila- 


The  haymaker 


A  Famous  Battlefield  169 

delphia,  118  miles,  roads  both  very  good  and  very  bad;  southeast 
to  Baltimore,  54  miles,  mostly  good  roads;  south  to  Washington, 
78  miles,  fair  road;  southwest  to  Hagerstown,  34  miles,  over  a  stone 
road.  Nearly  all  the  highways  are  tollroads,  and  the  interruptions 
to  pay  toll  are  pretty  frequent  on  some  of  them. 

An  attractive  route  from  Harrisburg  is  westerly  up  the  beautiful 
valley  of  the  Blue  Juniata.  The  road  is  bad  in  places. 

Philadelphia  abounds  in  features  of  great  interest,  and  the  brief- 
est sojourn  there  should  include  visits  to  Independence  Hall, 
Franklin's  grave,  the  Betsey  Ross  House,  Fairmount  Park,  and  to 
the  city  hall,  which  is  the  largest  municipal  building  in  the  world 
and  cost  over  £20,000,000. 

Bryn  Mawr  with  its  famous  girl's  college  is  10  miles  west  of  Phila- 
delphia. Bryn  Mawr  is  Welsh  for  "great  hill."  At  22  miles  on  this 
route,  a  little  beyond  Norristown,  the  road  to  the  left  leads  to  Valley 
Forge,  4  miles,  Washington's  headquarters  in  the  winter  of  1777- 
8.  At  Pottstown  on  this  route,  39  miles,  is  a  wonderful  group  of 
rocks,  known  as  "Ringing  Rocks,"  which  give  forth  a  musical  sound 
when  struck. 


VIII 

THE    WATER    GAP    AND    BEYOND 

I  HAD  seen  pictures  of  the  Delaware  Water  Gap,  I 
had  read  of  its  beauty,  yet  I  had  wandered  into 
many  out  of  the  way  nooks  and  corners  of  our 
country  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  before  I  visited 
this  easily  accessible  and  famous  Water  Gap.  It  is 
almost  due  west  from  New  York  City  on  the  Delaware 
River  which  forms  the  boundary  line  between  New 
Jersey  and  Pennsylvania.  Here  the  stream,  before 
escaping  from  the  rough,  broken  country  to  the  north 
and  entering  the  gentle  pastoral  region  to  the  south, 
encounters  a  bold  mountain  ridge,  and  passes  through 
a  narrow  cleft,  where  rise  on  either  side  great  gray 
cliffs,  raggedly  clad  with  trees.  The  scene  is  impressive, 
and  the  jagged  savageness  of  the  Gap  itself  is  pleasantly 
relieved  by  the  milder  and  better  forested  heights  that 
are  close  at  hand.  Big  wooden  hotels  crown  the  promi- 
nent view  points,  and  the  vicinity  is  a  favorite  summer 
resort.  I  preferred  to  seek  a  more  rustic  region,  and 
after  I  had  enjoyed  loitering  about  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  the  Gap  for  a  time,  I  followed  a  wagon 
road  on  the  Jersey  shore  northward  along  the  stream. 
Soon  I  had  left  the  hotels  behind,  and  also  the  railroads, 
which  take  advantage  of  the  Gap  to  slip  through  the 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  171 

mountain  barrier  and  then  go  on  westward.  Often  the 
road  I  trod  skirted  the  riverbank  with  only  an  inter- 
mittent screen  of  trees  and  bushes  between  it  and  the 
water,  and  I  caught  many  an  enchanting  glimpse  of  the 
stream,  and  of  high  hills  or  serene  mountain  ranges 
dreaming  in  the  distance. 

Among  the  wayside  trees  were  frequent  chestnuts 
with  wide-spreading  limbs  and  shaggy-barked  trunks, 
and  on  the  ground  was  a  strewing  of  burs.  As  I  was 
passing  under  one  of  these  trees  a  chipmunk  began  to 
scold  me,  and  to  scurry  around  through  the  brush  as 
if  to  frighten  me  by  conveying  the  impression  that  he 
was  a  dozen  times  his  actual  size.  Then  I  observed 
that  burs  and  nuts  were  dropping  from  aloft,  and  I 
fancied  that  the  chipmunk  on  the  ground  had  a  con- 
federate in  the  tree  who  was  busy  throwing  down  nuts 
for  him  to  gather.  I  secured  a  share  of  the  toothsome 
woodland  treasures  for  myself,  in  spite  of  the  protests 
of  the  chipmunk  in  the  adjacent  brush,  and  resumed 
my  walk,  munching  the  nuts  at  my  leisure  from  a 
pocket  half  filled.  When  my  supply  became  depleted 
I  found  I  could  easily  replenish  it  almost  anywhere 
along  the  way.  The  road  presently  entered  a  fine 
stretch  of  woodland,  tall-treed  and  damp,  with  a  thick 
undergrowth  of  dark-foliaged  rhododendrons.  Fre- 
quent brooks  came  plashing  down  rocky  ravines  from 
the  hills,  and  this  wilderness  voice  of  the  waters  was 
almost  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  silence.  Once  I 
saw  a  group  of  deer  hastening  ghostlike  through  the 


172    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

leafage,  and  as  soon  as  their  flitting  forms  vanished 
loneliness  reigned  once  more. 

After  a  time  I  emerged  among  farm  fields,  but  always 
as  I  went  on  the  woodland  was  not  far  away.  Late  in 
the  afternoon  I  was  overtaken  by  the  mail-carrier,  a 
thin,  hook-nosed  ancient,  with  long  gray  hair  hanging 
about  his  stooping  shoulders.  He  had  an  open  buggy 
drawn  by  a  big,  bony,  black  horse,  and  as  there  was 
room  for  a  passenger  and  I  was  getting  footweary  I 
arranged  to  ride  with  him  to  the  next  village.  It  was  a 
somewhat  jerky  journey,  for  he  stopped  at  every  house 
to  leave  a  little  mail  bag,  which  he  either  hung  on  the 
dooryard  fence,  or  thrust  into  a  box  fastened  on  a  post. 
Once  he  drove  into  a  yard  and  asked  a  man  there  if  he 
had  any  lard  to  sell. 

"Yes,  we  got  a  little,"  the  man  said. 

"How  much  d'ye  tax  for  it?"  the  mail-carrier  ques- 
tioned. 

"Oh,  the  goin'  price,  whatever  'tis,"  the  farmer 
replied. 

They  discussed  the  lard  and  various  other  topics,  ad- 
dressing each  other  by  their  first  names,  and  I  learned 
that  my  companion's  name  was  Isaiah.  "I  sell  con- 
siderable produce  during  a  season,"  he  said  when  we 
resumed  our  journey.  "The  hotels  down  around  the 
Gap  are  good  customers,  and  I  always  carry  a  load 
when  I  start  from  up  here  in  the  country.  I'm  ashamed 
to  tell  it,  but  since  the  first  of  April  there  hain't  been  a 
Sunday  when  I  did  n't  have  to  put  in  my  time  getting 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  173 

sweet  corn,  eggs,  and  such  things.  But  I'm  obliged  to 
make  a  living  somehow." 

I  asked  if  the  house  we  had  just  left  was  an  old  Dutch 
dwelling.  It  was  a  spreading  structure  of  stone  shad- 
owed by  tall  trees.  At  the  rear  was  a  long  and  broad 
piazza,  and  at  the  front  was  a  porch  with  a  settee  on 
either  side  suggestive  of  tranquil  evening  loitering. 

"Yes,  that's  a  Dutch  house  all  right,"  Isaiah  said, 
"and  it  was  built  way  back  in  Colonial  times.  We're 
all  Dutch  through  here. 

"D'ye  see  that  big  field  of  buckwheat  up  on  the 
hillside?  The  grain  is  all  reaped  and  stacked  and  ready 
for  the  threshing  machine.  That  field  is  a  part  of 
Hiram  Robock's  farm,  but  he's  only  been  living  on  it 
for  the  last  two  or  three  years.  Now  he's  got  sick  of 
it,  and  a  few  days  ago  he  moved  back  to  Newark  where 
he  come  from.  Well,  it  was  like  this — he  did  n't  git 
along  with  his  neighbors.  He  wa'n't  very  sociable,  and 
he  thought  they  was  too  inquisitive  about  his  business, 
and  too  much  inclined  to  trespass.  You  see  when  a 
man  here  needs  to  use  a  stick  of  timber  he  goes  up  on 
the  mountain,  and  if  he  don't  find  it  handy  on  his  own 
land  he  goes  somewheres  else  on  land  that  lies  next  to  his 
and  gets  what  he  wants.  We  all  do  that  way,  and 
nobody  cares;  but  Hiram  thought  it  was  stealing,  and 
he  made  a  row. 

"His  buckwheat  hadn't  been  cut  .when  he  moved 
away,  and  his  neighbors  got  quite  anxious  because  it 
looked  to  them  as  if  he  was  goin'  to  let  that  buckwheat 


174    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

go  to  waste.  They  thought  he  must  be  crazy.  They 
were  right  about  his  intentions.  He  wa'n't  goin'  to 
bother  with  the  buckwheat,  and  I  went  to  him  and 
made  a  bargain  to  harvest  it  to  halves.  We  raise  a 
good  deal  of  buckwheat  around  here,  and  all  through 
the  winter  we  have  buckwheat  cakes  for  breakfast 
every  morning.  Oh,  we  can  beat  the  city  people  all  to 
hollow  on  makin'  buckwheat  cakes." 

My  companion  talked  with  considerable  animation, 
and  he  often  gestured  with  an  upward,  outward  throw 
of  his  hands,  and  he  emphasized  the  good  points  in  his 
discourse  by  giving  me  a  hunch  with  his  shoulder. 
Presently,  in  response  to  a  question  of  his,  I  told  him 
that  I  was  from  Massachusetts. 

"Do  you  know  Dr.  Prout  of  Boston?"  he  at  once 
asked.  "He's  a  specialist  on  stomick  troubles,  and 
he's  helped  me  wonderful.  Until  'bout  six  years  ago 
I'd  been  a  well  man  all  my  life.  I'd  hired  out  on  a  farm 
at  that  time  and  was  workin'  in  oats.  I  remember  I 
was  talkin'  with  the  woman  of  the  house  after  dinner, 
and  she  said:  'I've  never  knowed  you  to  lay  down  like 
other  men  to  take  a  noon  spell.  Don't  you  never  get 
tired?' 

"There  come  up  a  shower  in  the  afternoon,  and  I 
was  goin'  to  the  house  when  suddently  I  begun  belching 
up  gas.  'What  under  the  sun  ails  me?'  I  says.  I  was 
fairly  blind,  and  I  went  and  sot  down  on  the  stoop. 
But  I  got  worse  instead  of  better  and  liked  to  'a' 
choked  to  death.  One  of  the  other  men  helped  me  into 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  175 

the  house  and  went  for  the  doctor,  who  relieved  me 
some,  so  that  the  next  day  I  was  out  and  around.  But 
I  was  too  sick  to  work.  I  doctored  with  him  all  winter, 
and  wa'n't  improvin'  a  bit.  I  had  nervous  prostration, 
you  know.  It  was  just  as  if  death  was  staring  me  right 
in  the  face.  I  can't  describe  it  to  you.  Dr.  Prout's 
advertisements  was  in  the  paper,  and  I  decided  to  try 
him.  I  told  the  man  I'd  been  doctorin'  with,  of  my 
intentions,  and  he  said,  'I  don't  think  much  of  these 
advertising  doctors.  They  just  take  your  money  and 
don't  cure  you.' 

'"That's  a  little  the  way  of  the  local  doctors,  too,' 
I  says.  'You  pledged  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you 
was  goin'  to  do  suthin'  to  cure  me,  and  here  I  am.' 

'"I  told  you  that  in  good  faith,'  he  says,  'but  your 
trouble  is  more  stubborner  than  I  expected.' 

"'You  was  on  a  wild  goose  chase  all  the  time,'  I  says. 

"So  I  wrote  to  Dr.  Prout  and  told  him  how  I  was 
afflicted.  After  that  we  had  considerable  correspond- 
ence, and  his  portrait  was  right  on  the  corner  of  every 
letter  he  wrote.  In  his  first  letter  he  asked,  'What 
does  the  local  doctors  pronounce  your  trouble  to  be?' 

"  I  replied  that  they  said  I  had  a  weak  stomick,  and 
I  described  my  feelin's  and  symptoms.  He  wrote  back 
that  he  had  diagonized  my  case,  and  I  had  catarrh  of 
the  stomick,  and  that  the  inside  of  the  stomick  was 
covered  with  a  thick  mucus.  'We  must  kill  the  germs 
of  that;'  he  said,  'and  I  can  guarantee  you  a  perma- 
nent cure;  but  it  will  perhaps  require  a  five  month's 


176    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

treatment,  and  the  charge  would  be  nine  dollars  a 
month.' 

"I  got  the  medicine  from  him,  and  I  had  n't  taken 
it  no  time  at  all  when  I  began  to  be  better,  and  at  the 
end  of  five  months  I  was  well." 

Now  we  were  entering  a  village.  It  was  a  chaotic 
little  place  with  what  was  known  as  "the  mountain" 
rising  easterly,  and  a  high  hill  on  the  west,  and  right 
through  the  midst  of  the  hamlet  ran  a  swift,  noisy 
stream.  The  valley  road  was  here  crossed  by  another, 
and  near  the  meeting  of  the  ways  was  a  store,  a  hotel, 
a  gristmill,  and  a  church.  The  store  was  neatly  painted, 
and  in  good  repair,  and  had  a  mild  aspect  of  prosperity. 
In  front  of  the  hotel  across  the  way  hung  a  somewhat 
pretentious  sign,  but  the  building  was  now  a  tenement 
occupied  by  two  families.  It  had  been  years  since  the 
wheels  had  turned  in  the  gloomy  gristmill,  and  the 
barnlike  little  church  was  pastorless  and  seldom  used. 
In  the  village  were  perhaps  a  dozen  homes.  Most  of 
them  were  distinctly  humble,  and  often  they  were 
forlornly  so.  The  yards  and  fields  were  inclosed  by 
staggering  nondescript  fences.  Every  home  had  its 
ordorous  hogpen,  and  this  was  very  apt  to  be  next  to 
the  road  where  the  passer  could  neither  avoid  the  view 
of  its  filth  nor  help  inhaling  some  of  its  aroma.  Along 
either  side  of  the  narrow  village  ways,  among  the  weeds 
and  stones,  it  seemed  to  be  convenient  to  leave  the 
farm  wagons,  and  other  weatherworn  vehicles,  some 
entirely  past  use;  and  for  variety  there  were  mingled 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  177 

with  them  woodpiles,  old  wheels,  broken  mowing- 
machines,  and  similar  rubbish. 

With  the  help  of  a  ceremonious  introduction  from 
Isaiah  I  engaged  lodging  at  the  storekeeper's,  and  then 
I  went  for  a  ramble  about  the  hamlet  in  the  evening 
dusk.  I  found  its  quaint  picturesqueness  quite  appeal- 
ing. There  was  even  a  wellsweep  at  one  of  the  homes 
still  in  use,  and  this  harmonized  very  agreeably  with 
the  sunbonneted  women  and  rudely  clothed  men. 

The  storekeeper's  dwelling  and  place  of  business  were 
both  under  one  roof,  and  after  eating  supper  in  the 
kitchen  I  stepped  into  the  adjacent  store  where  a  few 
dim  lamps  were  burning.  A  box  stove  occupied  the 
center  of  the  apartment,  and  near  it  was  a  long  bench. 
I  took  possession  of  a  lone  chair,  and  chatted  with  the 
men  who  dropped  in  from  time  to  time.  Most  of  them 
settled  down  on  the  bench  to  stay  for  the  evening, 
and  when  that  would  hold  no  more  they  perched  on  the 
counters  and  on  boxes  of  goods.  One  man,  after  feeling 
of  the  stove  to  make  sure  there  was  no  fire  in  it,  sat 
down  on  that.  Some  had  resorted  to  the  store  to  get 
their  mail,  some  to  trade,  others  merely  to  loaf  and 
gossip.  One  of  them  was  a  stutterer  who  seemed  to 
try  to  overcome  his  defect  by  speaking  very  loud.  A 
dog  had  come  tagging  along  at  the  heels  of  the  man  who 
sat  on  the  stove,  and  when  the  creature  saw  that  his 
master  was  going  to  linger  he  curled  up  and  went  to 
sleep.  At  a  convenient  spot  on  the  floor  was  a  pan  with 
a  little  sawdust  in  it.  Some  of  the  men  were  smoking, 


178    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

some  were  chewing,  but  they  all,  whether  using  tobacco 
or  not,  spit  at  the  pan.  Their  marksmanship  was  not 
very  good.  If  it  had  been  I  fear  the  pan  would  have 
overflowed. 

A  woman  brought  in  a  bag  of  chestnuts.  The  store- 
keeper weighed  them  and  said,  "Eleven  pounds,  fifty- 
five  cents.  What'll  you  have?" 

She  asked  for  some  coffee  and  a  few  other  small  items, 
and  remarked  that  the  coffee  she  bought  last  did  n't 
seem  as  good  as  what  she'd  been  getting. 

"It's  what  I  have  on  my  own  table,"  the  storekeeper 
responded,  "and  I  don't  see  any  difference.  Maybe 
you  used  skim  milk  in  it." 

He  emptied  the  bag  behind  a  counter  on  the  floor. 
"I  shall  be  glad  when  the  chestnut  season  is  over,"  he 
said,  "and  I  get  these  out  of  here.  I'm  tired  of  walkin' 
over  'em,  and  of  having  the  grubs  crawl  around.  I'm 
obliged  to  spread  'em  or  they'd  heat.  There's  quite  a 
number  of  bushels  here  now." 

"This  is  a  good  year  for  chestnuts,"  a  man  on  the 
bench  remarked.  "It  don't  take  long  to  go  out  and 
fill  one  of  them  air  big  pails." 

"How  many  can  you  pick  up  in  a  day  if  they're  right 
thick?"  another  asked. 

"A  bushel,"  the  first  man  replied. 

"Well,  if  you  did,"  the  other  said,  "you'd  have  to 
hustle  and  pick  up  all  the  time." 

"It  don't  pay  to  wait  till  all  the  chestnuts  fall  them- 
selves," the  storekeeper  said,  "because  the  leaves  come 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  179 

down,  too,  and  the  nuts  are  hidden.  As  soon  as  the 
burs  are  open  good  you  want  to  climb  up  in  the  branches 
with  a  pole  and  lick  the  burs  off." 

"I'd  rather  get  out  on  the  limbs  and  jar  the  burs  off 
with  an  ax,"  was  the  comment  of  a  man  whom  the 
others  addressed  as  Jase. 

"No,  don't  do  that,"  the  storekeeper  said,  "or  you'll 
bruise  the  bark  and  injure  the  trees.  But  whipping  a 
tree  and  keeping  your  foothold  ain't  easy.  It's  too 
risky  a  job  for  me.  My  neck  is  so  long  I  believe  I  could 
tie  a  knot  in  it,  and  the  chances  would  be  that  I'd  break 
it  if  I  made  a  slip.  One  time  my  brother  was  beating 
off  burs,  and  he  fell  and  cut  his  head  open  bad.  He  hit 
a  stone,  and  no  wonder.  There's  nothing  but  stones 
round  this  country.  You  put  your  shoe  down  on  one 
or  more  at  every  footstep." 

"It's  likely  pretty  soon  that  we  won't  get  no  more 
chestnuts,"  Jase  observed.  "I  think  this  'ere  chestnut 
tree  blight  is  goin'  to  clean  up  all  the  trees  of  that  sort 
on  our  mountain." 

A  man  came  in  eating  a  raw  turnip.  He  wore  a 
faded  felt  hat  that  had  lost  its  ribbon  and  fitted  over  his 
head  like  an  extinguisher.  His  other  clothing,  and 
even  his  beard  and  face  had  a  faded  hue  also. 

"Set  down  here,  Bill,"  one  of  the  men  said,  making 
room  for  him  on  the  bench.  "You  ought  not  to  be 
eatin'  raw  turnips.  It's  only  three  weeks  since  you 
got  out  of  the  Trenton  Horspital." 

"Turnips  won't  hurt  me  none,"  Bill  responded.     "I 


180    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

kin  eat  anything  now;  and  I'm  hungry  all  the  time. 
They  kind  o'  starve  you  at  the  horspital.  For  two  days 
before  they  operate  they  don't  feed  you  at  all,  and  your 
stomick  gits  flat  as  a  board.  You  don't  have  much 
appetite  for  a  while  afterward,  but  I  tell  you,  when  you 
begin  to  walk  around,  you  want  some  grub.  The  food 
was  good,  but  there  wa'n't  enough  of  it.  There'd  be 
a  little  meat,  and  a  little  cabbage  and  potato,  and  little 
messes  of  several  other  things,  and  I  could  n't  hardly 
eat  some  of  the  stuff  it  was  so  darn  sweet.  Course 
they  would  n't  want  to  give  you  a  swill  pail  full,  but 
I  thought  they  might  have  given  me  more  than  they 
did.  Just  as  soon  as  the  doctor  let  me  out  of  the 
horspital  I  went  over  to  a  butcher's  shop  and  got  me 
fifteen  cents'  worth  of  boiled  ham.  Gorry!  that  was 
fine. 

"I  did  n't  like  the  eggs  there  at  the  horspital. 
They'd  been  in  cold  storage.  I  kin  tell  a  cold  storage 
egg  with  my  eyes  shut.  People  that  say  they're  just 
as  good  as  fresh  eggs  don't  know  what  they're  talkin' 
about.  Such  eggs  ain't  first-class,  and  neither  is  cream- 
ery butter." 

"But  creamery  butter  brings  a  better  price  than 
homemade,"  the  storekeeper  said.  "The  public  knows 
it's  at  least  half  way  decent,  and  they're  not  sure  about 
the  other.  I  buy  and  sell  butter  that  the  farmers  bring 
in  here,  and  some  of  it  is  fierce.  By  gee!  I've  handled 
some  rotten  butter.  You  could  n't  hire  me  to  eat  it 
myself." 


o 


o 
-ss 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  181 

"My  dad  went  to  a  horspital  in  New  York  once," 
the  man  on  the  stone  said,  "and  they  kep'  delayin'  and 
delayin'  and  not  havin'  any  operation.  Finally  he 
asked  the  doctor  if  he  could  go  out  for  a  while,  and  the 
doctor  told  him  he  could  if  he'd  promise  to  come  back. 
'Yes,'  Pap  say,  'I  will  come  back.' 

"But  he  did  n't  want  to  pay  out  no  more  money  for 
board  at  a  horspital  where  they  wa'n't  doin'  nothin' 
for  him,  and  so  he  got  fixed  up  by  an  outside  doctor, 
who  did  such  a  good  job  that  Pap  was  around  all  right 
in  a  little  while,  and  for  years  afterward  he  could  beat 
any  man  in  this  country  dancin'  a  jig." 

"It  costs  something  to  go  to  a  horspital,"  Bill 
affirmed.  "If  you  have  a  private  room  they  sock  it  to 
you  like  the  Old  Harry.  Everything  costs  high  nowa- 
days. They  told  me  in  Trenton  that  the  carpenters 
git  three  dollars  and  a  half  a  day,  and  only  work  eight 
hours,  and  not  at  all  on  Saturday  afternoon.  That 
kind  o'  thing  is  goin'  to  ruin  this  country  in  time. 

"I  was  lookin'  out  o'  the  window  one  day  there  and 
saw  an  airship.  You  would  n't  git  me  to  ride  in  one 
of  'em  for  a  million  dollars.  But  I'd  like  to  have  an 
auto.  They  say  autos'll  be  cheap  as  wheelbarrows  after 
a  few  years.  You  know  bicycles  used  to  be  a  luxury. 
Now  they  ain't  fashionable  no  more,  but  are  kind  o' 
gone  by.  I  have  an  idea  it'll  be  the  same  with  autos, 
and  common  people  kin  have  'em  as  well  as  the 
wealthy." 

At  times  I  had  difficulty  in  catching  what  Bill  said, 


1 82    Highways  and  Byways— St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

for  he  had  a  thick-tonged  way  of  speaking,  and  when 
he  had  to  struggle  with  a  thought  more  than  commonly 
profound  he  would  lean  over  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  run  his  fingers  up  under  his  hat  into  his 
tangled  hair,  and  his  muffled  voice  would  go  down 
toward  his  cowhide  boots.  I  made  some  remark  to  the 
effect  that  airships  and  automobiles  both  had  a  long 
list  of  fatal  accidents  charged  up  to  them,  and  that  I 
had  been  glad  to  ride  into  the  village  with  the  mail- 
carrier. 

"You  'n'  me  are  a  good  deal  alike,"  Bill  commented. 
"I'd  rather  go  safe  than  fast  any  day." 

"Did  Isaiah  sing  you  one  of  his  songs?"  the  occupant 
of  the  stove  asked.  "He  composes  'em  himself.  He's 
got  just  one  tune,  but  he's  made  up  a  good  many  sets 
of  words,  and  he  thinks  he's  quite  a  singer." 

"Isaiah  has  to  make  a  long  hard  trip  every  day," 
Bill  said.  "This  is  a  mountainious  country  and  it  ain't 
easy  to  git  to  any  big  town  or  to  the  railroad.  That's 
where  we're  handicapped  when  it  comes  to  marketing 
the  stuff  from  our  farms,  and  this  year  we're  extra  bad 
off  in  a  money  way  because  the  weather  has  been  too 
dry  for  things  to  grow  good.  We  had  a  May  drouth 
that  cut  the  hay  crop,  and  a  drouth  in  August  that  just 
cooked  the  corn  and  everything  like  that.  I  ginerally 
have  hay  to  sell.  Las'  year  I  stacked  or  put  in  the  barn 
fifty  ton.  I  keep  a  number  o'  head  o'  cow  and  they'll 
eat  all  I  got  this  season.  There  won't  be  nawthin  left 
by  the  time  they  can  go  to  pasture  in  the  spring." 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  183 

"'Bout  our  worst  road  is  the  one  over  the  mountain, 
ain't  it  Jase?"  the  storekeeper  said. 

"Yes,"  Jase  agreed,  "it's  pretty  darn  steep,  I  tell 
you,  but  in  the  summer  I  drawed  twenty-two  hundred 
up  it  with  that  old  Sally  horse  of  mine." 

"There's  ten  thousand  railroad  ties  wanted  from 
here  next  winter,"  one  of  the  men  said.  "We'll  raft 
'em  down  to  the  Gap  in  the  spring,  I  s'pose.  When  my 
father  was  young  rafting  on  the  Delaware  was  quite  a 
business.  Every  raft  had  to  have  a  steersman  and  three 
other  men.  They  each  had  an  oar  near  one  of  the 
corners,  and  they  had  to  keep  workin'  the  oars  a  good 
deal  of  the  time  so  the  raft  would  drift  along  properly. 
The  men  would  make  trip  after  trip  in  the  spring  and 
fall  when  there  was  plenty  of  water.  They'd  go  down 
on  the  rafts  and  come  back  on  the  stagecoaches.  Any 
farmer  along  shore  who  had  an  eddy  near  his  house 
where  the  rafts  could  tie  up  had  a  chance  to  make 
money.  The  raftsmen  would  pay  well  for  lodging  and 
food,  and  they  had  to  have  a  little  something  strong, 
you  know.  Many  of  the  rafts  were  run  clear  to  Trenton. 
There's  some  pretty  dangerous  places  on  the  river  when 
the  water  is  a  little  low,  and  sometimes  a  raft  would 
git  stove  up  in  a  rocky  rapids.  That's  a  time  when  the 
men  needed  to  keep  their  wits  about  'em.  If  they 
were  thrown  into  the  water  and  got  scairt  they'd 
sure  drown.  Foul  Rift  is  a  bad  place.  That's  where 
the  Lehigh  joins  the  Delaware,  and  unless  you  butt 
right  into  the  cross  current  you're  carried  over  agin' 


184    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

the  Jersey  shore.  Oh!  you've  got  to  keep  your  eyes 
skint  there. 

"My  land  won't  furnish  many  ties  on  account  of 
that  fire  a  few  years  ago.  It  was  an  April  fire  that 
started  in  the  night.  Early  the  next  morning  it  could 
easily  have  been  put  out.  Only  a  little  bit  of  place  had 
been  burnt  over,  but  as  the  fire  was  smudging  in  the 
wet  swale  where  it  could  n't  do  much  damage  we  paid 
no  attention  to  it.  There  the  wind  got  behind  the  fire 
and  drove  it  right  up  the  mountain  faster'n  a  man 
could  run.  In  some  places  there  was  down  timber,  and 
in  other  places  the  woods  had  been  lumbered  off  and 
the  brush  lay  thick.  When  the  fire  struck  those  it 
swept  everything  pretty  near,  and  often  burnt  down 
into  the  turf  three  or  four  feet  deep.  Lots  of  young 
chestnuts  are  still  standing  dead  and  bare  that  was 
killed  then.  We  been  drawing  them  dry  poles  down 
ever  since  as  we  needed  'em  for  firewood.  The  ground 
that  was  burned  over  is  covered  with  wintergreens 
now." 

"We  got  a  good  many  maple  trees  up  on  our  place," 
Bill  said.  "When  I  was  a  boy  we  used  to  tap  'em  and 
make  sugar,  but  that  takes  a  power  of  work.  It  don't 
pay." 

"Tony's  in  the  jug,"  Jase  remarked.  "They  got 
him  locked  up  for  twenty  days.  He  had  a  little  rumpus 
with  his  wife  and  used  a  stick  of  firewood  on  her,  and 
she  used  another  on  him.  Then  she  went  and  had  him 
arrested." 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  185 

"They  could  n't  'a'  missed  hittin'  every  time  they 
struck,"  one  of  the  listeners  said.  "She's  so  big 
around,"  and  he  stretched  his  arms  to  form  an  impres- 
sive circle;  "and  Tony  looks  like  a  beer  kag." 

"After  they'd  taken  him  to  jail,"  Jase  said,  "she 
went  to  see  him  and  stood  a-talkin'  to  him  through  a 
window.  She  asked  him  to  come  home  with  her  and 
help  husk  corn;  but  he  says;  'I  won't  go  today.  I 
need  to  rest,  but  I'll  go  tomorrer.": 

A  woman  who  was  buying  some  calico  of  the  store- 
keeper turned  to  the  group  of  men  and  said:  "I  think 
Tony's  wife  is  an  old  crank.  You  would  n't  'a'  ketched 
me  goin'  to  see  my  husband  after  I'd  got  him  locked  up." 

"I  don't  believe  they  get  very  good  grub  at  the  jail," 
the  ever-hungry  Bill  said.  "But  then,  long  as  you  don't 
git  in  no  trouble  you  don't  have  to  go  there." 

"Well  b-b-boys,"  the  stammerer  said,  "it's  m-m-most 
nine  o'clock,  and  I  want  to  git  some  m-m-medicine  to 
break  up  a  cold  before  this  sh-sh-shebang  closes." 

"I  c'n  give  you  some  quinine  pills,"  the  storekeeper 
said. 

"What  good  are  pills?"  Jase  said.  "They're  all 
made  of  buckwheat  flour." 

But  the  storekeeper  supplied  his  customer  with 
something  from  a  closet  in  a  rear  corner  and  turned 
out  one  of  the  lights  as  a  signal  that  it  was  closing 
time.  The  men  got  on  their  feet  from  bench  and 
counters  and  the  stove,  each  made  a  final  spit  in  the 
direction  of  the  pan  of  sawdust,  and  off  they  shambled. 


1 86    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  It  was  a  day  of  loafing 
and  visiting,  but  once  in  a  while  a  customer  dropped 
in  at  the  store  and  made  a  purchase.  Most  of  the  men 
wore  their  old  clothes,  and  these  were  often  marvelously 
patched,  ragged,  and  shabby.  They  would  gather 
about  one  of  the  wagons  in  the  street,  adjust  their 
limbs  or  bodies  on  or  against  it,  and  then  talk  as  the 
spirit  moved;  or  they  would  chat  at  some  gateway  or 
barnyard  fence,  or  on  a  home  porch. 

In  the  early  dawn  I  had  heard  the  sound  of  axes  and 
knew  the  people  were  cutting  up  firewood  with  which 
to  get  breakfast.  Practically  all  of  them  brought  a 
little  jag  at  a  time  from  the  mountain  and  threw  it  off 
in  front  of  the  house  by  the  roadside  and  cut  it  up  as 
it  was  needed  day  by  day.  Some,  however,  spent  a 
little  of  the  Sunday  leisure  in  chopping  up  more  than 
usual.  Bevies  of  little  pigs  ran  about  the  roadways 
rooting  and  investigating,  and  there  were  cows  wander- 
ing and  browsing  where  they  chose. 

When  I  looked  from  the  kitchen  window  of  my 
lodging  place,  after  breakfast,  I  observed  signs  of  life 
about  a  large  old  house  adjoining.  It  was  a  somewhat 
dilapidated  building,  and  certain  of  its  window  sashes 
lacked  so  much  glass  that  they  had  been  boarded  up. 
The  most  noticeable  decoration  of  the  structure  was  a 
great  hornet's  nest  under  the  peak  of  the  gable.  On 
the  previous  day  the  house  had  been  vacant,  but  a 
family  had  moved  in  from  another  village  house  during 
the  night.  A  mule  was  grazing  in  the  yard,  and  a  dog 


The  old  wellsweep 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  187 

was  hitched  to  a  clothesline  along  which  the  restraining 
leash  slipped  and  gave  him  a  limited  amount  of  liberty. 
At  the  rear  door  was  a  platform  and  a  pump,  and  one 
at  a  time  the  members  of  the  household  scrubbed  their 
hands  and  faces  there  in  a  washdish.  The  family  in- 
cluded two  or  three  bewhiskered  men,  a  frowsy  old 
woman  with  a  corncob  pipe  almost  constantly  in  her 
mouth,  a  young  woman,  and  a  barefooted  little  girl. 

"That  old  woman  looks  brown  as  her  pipe,  don't 
she?"  the  storekeeper  said.  "There's  a  few  other  old 
ladies  roundabout  who  smoke,  but  the  habit  ain't  com- 
mon. This  country  is  pretty  well  civilized.  See,  that 
woman  is  in  the  front  room  now  cleaning  a  window  and 
still  smokin'.  That's  her  daughter  cleaning  the  other 
window.  She'd  be  a  pretty  rosy  lookin'  woman  if  she 
was  dressed  up.  There  are  the  men  comin'  in  the  gate. 
They've  got  their  hog  and  are  drivin'  it  along  hitched 
by  the  hind  leg.  I  wonder  how  they  got  it  across  the 
bridge.  Pigs  are  awful  mean  about  crossin'  a  bridge. 
Often  you  have  to  take  right  hold  and  get  'em  over  by 
main  strength. 

"These  people  ain't  got  cows  or  chickens  or  anything 
like  that,  and  they  don't  cultivate  any  land.  They 
have  to  depend  on  day  wages  for  their  living.  Their 
home,  until  last  year,  was  over  in  Pennsylvania  in  the 
scrub  oak  barrens.  That's  a  peculiar  region,  and  it 
begins  not  far  back  from  the  Delaware  River.  It's 
just  a  dreary  level  of  little  oaks  that  don't  get  much 
higher  than  six  feet,  but  there  are  spots  where  pine, 


1 88    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

chestnut,  and  hickory  grow.  Every  fall  of  the  year  the 
natives  let  the  fire  run  through  so  as  to  have  pasturage 
for  their  cows.  Mostly  the  cows  browse  on  the  tender 
new  sprouts  that  start  up  from  the  roots  of  the  oaks. 

There's  no  fences,  and  the  hogs  and  cattle  run  in  the 
woods.  You  might  think  that  the  creatures  belonging 
to  different  families  would  get  mixed  up,  but  the 
housen  are  so  far  apart  that  I  guess  the  cattle  never 
get  together.  The  buildings  are  of  logs.  Big  families 
are  the  rule,  and  yet  very  likely  the  house  will  have 
only  one  room  downstairs,  and  the  ceiling  of  that  room 
is  the  log  crosspieces  and  loose  floor  boards  of  the  loft 
above.  It's  a  wonder  they  don't  freeze  in  winter,  but 
they  seem  to  come  out  all  right  in  the  spring.  They 
trap  and  hunt  and  fish,  and  they  have  little  garden 
patches.  Whenever  they  get  an  unusual  supply  of  food 
they  eat  it  all  up  at  one  time.  It's  either  a  feast 
or  a  famine  with  them.  If  anyone  kills  a  hog  all 
the  neighbors  borrow  some  of  the  pork  and  return  it 
when  they  kill.  Each  family  keeps  an  old  horse,  or  a 
mule,  or  a  yoke  of  oxen;  and  now  and  then  they  haul 
out  some  railroad  ties,  or  perhaps  they  cut  a  little  batch 
of  hoop  poles  and  shave  'em  and  take  'em  to  town.  In 
exchange  they  git  some  tobacker  and  a  sack  of  flour 
and  a  few  other  things  and  feel  rich.  The  old  women 
all  smoke,  and  their  teeth  are  as  black  as  that  stove — 
what  there  is  left  of  'em. 

"I  suppose  these  neighbors  of  ours  think  this  place 
has  about  all  the  advantages  anyone  need  want.  But 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  189 

I  don't  care  to  spend  my  life  here.  There's  no  chance 
for  variety  and  amusement,  and  we  have  only  a  poor 
little  primary  school  for  my  children  to  attend.  Each 
year  we  have  a  green  teacher.  We  can't  keep  one  a 
second  year  or  get  one  that's  had  experience  because 
the  salary  is  so  small  and  it's  so  inconvenient  getting 
here.  Sometimes  a  local  girl  applies  for  the  job,  and 
then  you  run  up  against  all  sorts  of  prejudices.  There 
was  a  case  here  a  few  years  ago  where  the  girl  was  all 
right,  but  she  had  the  majority  of  the  school  board 
against  her.  I  and  three  other  fellers  contributed  two 
and  a  half  apiece,  and  I  folded  up  a  nice  ten  dollar  bill, 
put  it  in  an  envelope,  and  went  to  see  one  of  the  oppos- 
ing men  on  the  board.  I  says,  'It's  worth  ten  dollars 
to  you  to  vote  for  that  girl,'  and  I  give  him  the  envelope. 
The  girl  got  the  school,  and  it  was  that  ten  dollar  bill 
what  done  it.  She'd  be  doin'  housework  today  if  she 
had  n't  had  that  start.  As  it  is,  she's  a  very  successful 
teacher  who's  now  in  a  nYst-class  position." 

"I'm  not  wanting  to  stay  any  more  than  he  is,"  Mrs. 
Storekeeper  said.  "He's  away  a  good  deal,  and  I  have 
to  wait  on  customers  besides  doing  my  own  work.  In 
winter  it's  worst,  for  then  there's  loafers  hanging  around 
the  store  all  the  time,  and  I  get  so  sick  and  tired  of  'em 
I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"Well,  but  you  have  a  chance  to  hear  all  the  news, 
don't  you?"  her  husband  said. 

"I  wouldn't  object  to  that,"  she  said,  "if  they 
did  n't  tell  the  same  thing  over  and  over.  There's 


190    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Bill — ever  since  he  came  home  from  the  hospital  I've 
heard  him  tell  about  his  operation  until  I'm  ready  to 
stop  my  ears  and  run.  Bill's  as  proud  over  that  opera- 
tion as  a  nigger  with  a  new  shirt." 

"I'll  say  this  for  our  people,"  the  storekeeper  re- 
marked— "they're  generally  industrious.  In  summer 
they're  up  at  half-past  four,  and  they  work  after  supper 
till  about  dark,  then  sit  around  a  little  while  and  get 
off  early  to  bed.  Six  o'clock  is  getting-up  time  in 
winter.  During  hot  weather  they  rest  in  the  middle  of 
the  day  from  eleven  to  two.  The  girls  all  learn  to  milk, 
and  it's  the  women  that  do  the  milking  on  most  farms. 

"Nearly  every  family  takes  a  local  weekly,  but  they 
don't  take  any  dailies  or  general  periodicals  with  the 
exception  of  a  farm  paper  that  one  man  subscribes  for. 
They  don't  have  much  ambition  to  see  the  world.  It's 
no  great  journey  to  New  York  or  Philadelphia,  and  yet 
very  few  feel  they  can  afford  any  such  luxury,  even  if 
they're  well-to-do,  which,  as  a  rule,  they're  not.  Some 
have  mortgages  on  their  places,  and  more  would  have, 
but  I  tell  you,  mister,  a  farm  won't  mortgage  for  much 
when  the  land  is  goin'  down  in  value  as  it  is  here.  How- 
ever, you  can't  judge  people's  poverty  by  the  clothes 
they  wear.  Style  don't  bother  us  much  in  this  region. 
I  know  a  man  who  you  might  think  was  a  beggar  or 
pauper.  He's  'bout  as  rough  a  lookin'  old  piece  as  there 
is  around,  but  he  owns  many  a  farm.  Lots  of  poor 
men  have  had  more  comforts  than  he's  ever  had.  His 
wife  goes  barefoot.  I  saw  her  the  other  day  watching 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  191 

her  cows  that  she'd  got  hoppled  and  was  letting  feed 
along  the  road.  She  was  a  tough-lookin'  specimen. 

"Eventually  I  don't  believe  there'll  be  any  village 
left  here.  The  old  people  die,  and  the  young  people 
won't  stay.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  out  and  leave  soon,  and 
I'll  never  come  back,  not  even  to  be  buried.  Our 
cemetery  is  too  forbidding  a  spot  for  any  one  to  want 
to  go  to,  alive  or  dead.  It's  overgrown  with  blackberry 
briers,  bushes,  and  weeds,  and  the  groundhogs  dig 
holes  in  the  graves  and  scratch  out  the  bones.  Hundreds 
of  people  have  been  buried  there  whose  graves  were  only 
marked  by  a  plank  set  up  with  perhaps  the  initials  cut 
on  it.  Of  course  the  wood  soon  decayed,  and  now  no 
one  knows  where  the  graves  are." 

As  the  day  advanced  the  sky  became  solidly  gloomed 
with  clouds,  and  a  foggy  moisture  began  to  fall.  When 
I  presently  went  for  a  walk  it  was  a  sober,  diminished 
world  I  had  about  me,  and  after  I  left  the  village  the 
silence  was  almost  oppressive.  Not  a  breath  of  air  was 
stirring,  and  there  was  only  the  drip  of  waterdrops 
from  the  trees,  the  rustling  of  an  occasional  brook,  and 
now  and  then  the  lonely  twitter  of  some  little  bird.  The 
weather,  and  the  wet  slippery  ground  did  not  encourage 
me  to  ramble  far,  and  I  soon  returned  to  the  hamlet. 

On  the  vine-draped  porch  of  one  of  the  humbler 
homes  were  two  men  and  an  elderly  woman.  I  paused 
to  ask  them  why  every  field  and  yard  in  the  place  was 
fenced,  and  the  woman  replied:  "If  it  wa'n't  for  the 
fences  the  cows  that  run  around  loose  would  come  right 


192    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

into  our  houses.  I  dassen't  go  off  away  from  the  house 
and  leave  a  gate  or  barndoor  open,  and  I  have  to  keep 
the  barn  shut  up  tight  all  through  the  summer  with  the 
horse  sweating  away  inside." 

"Here,  want  an  apple?"  one  of  the  men  said,  offering 
me  a  beauty  that  he  took  from  his  pocket.  "Apples 
are  so  plenty  this  year  they  ain't  worth  nothin'.  We 
shuck  ours  right  off  and  sold  'em  for  cider." 

"There's  Isaac's  ducks  down  here  on  the  millpond," 
the  other  man  remarked. 

"You  don't  tell  me,"  the  woman  said,  and  she 
stepped  out  to  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  looked  to 
assure  herself. 

Across  the  road  was  a  brook,  and  a  little  above  was 
a  dam  and  a  small  pond  on  which  we  could  see  several 
ducks  paddling  about. 

"You  would  n't  think  that  little  stream  over  there 
would  do  any  damage,"  the  woman  observed,  "but 
I  can  remember  once  when  it  flooded  half  the  village. 
Must  have  been  'bout  this  time  of  year,  along  in  the 
fall.  There'd  been  awful  heavy  rains,  and  a  pond  above 
here  busted.  When  the  flood  swept  through  it  was 
pretty  near  morning,  and  some  of  the  people  here  in 
town  had  n't  got  up  yet.  The  water  tore  a  great  gulley 
along  this  side  of  the  road,  and  undermined  a  house 
just  below  us.  There  was  a  man  into  it,  and  he  was 
asleep*  They  had  to  hound  him  out.  He  might  not 
have  escaped  if  the  back  of  the  house  had  n't  been 
against  higher  ground.  Well,  he  made  out  to  git  his 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  193 

pants  on,  and  that  was  about  all,  I  guess;  and  no  sooner 
had  he  left  the  house  than  it  went  right  down  all  to 
smash.  Another  house  was  partly  wrecked.  It  sot  so 
slanting  after  the  flood  was  over  you  could  hardly 
walk  across  the  floor.  That  flood  was  forty  years  ago, 
wa'n't  it  Dick?" 

"Must  'a'  been  as  much  as  that,"  Dick  replied. 
"I'm  forty-six;  and  they  say  I  was  quite  a  little  chunk 
at  the  time,  but  I  can't  seem  to  recall  anything  about 
it." 

"Dick,"  the  woman  said,  "I  want  you  to  move  them 
rattlesnakes  out  of  my  weave-room.  I've  got  to  work 
in  there;  and  you  take  them  skunk-skins  out,  too. 
They  don't  smell  good." 

Dick  went  to  a  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  piazza,  and 
entered  a  dingy  little  room  which  contained  a  rusty 
stove  and  a  rude  loom,  and  much  else  that  had  been 
thrust  in  there  for  convenience.  On  the  loom  was  a 
partly  woven  rag  carpet.  Nearly  everyone  in  the 
region  saved  their  carpet  rags,  and  this  woman  did  quite 
a  business  in  weaving  them.  From  amongst  the  litter 
Dick  picked  up  a  box  about  fifteen  inches  square,  with 
a  pane  of  glass  fastened  on  top,  and  brought  it  out  on 
the  piazza.  Inside  were  three  big  rattlesnakes.  He 
reached  up  to  a  crosspiece  overhead  and  took  down  a 
pair  of  wooden  tongs.  Then  he  slid  the  glass  back, 
gripped  a  snake  just  behind  its  head,  and  pulled  it 
forth,  writhing  and  showing  its  fangs  and  rattling 
ominously. 


194    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"Look  out;  your  tongs  might  slip,"  the  woman 
cautioned. 

But  Dick  was  careful,  and  after  exhibiting  the 
monster  for  a  few  minutes  he  restored  it  to  the  box. 
They  make  nice  belts,"  he  said.  "I  git  a  couple  of  dollars 
a  hide.  When  I  go  lookin'  for  'em  I  carry  a  smaller 
box.  They  ain't  very  numerous,  and  like  enough  I 
might  go  half  a  dozen  times  and  not  git  one.  They 
like  warm  sunshiny  weather.  Then  I  find  'em  in  the 
fields  and  around  stone  walls  up  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  A  while  ago  one  was  found  right  here  in 
the  village  and  it  bit  a  dog.  The  poison  made  him 
sick — you  bet  it  did,  and  his  head  swelled  up  big  as  a 
water-pail." 

While  we  were  talking,  Bill,  the  man  who  had  been 
to  the  hospital,  joined  us,  and  soon  we  all  went  into 
the  kitchen  and  sat  down.  "These  two  men  are 
brothers,"  Bill  said  to  me,  "but  they  don't  look  no 
more  alike  than  a  dog  and  a  sheep." 

Then  turning  to  them,  he  said;  "That  was  a  pretty 
good  p'rade  at  Newton  las'  week  wa'n't  it?  My!  what 
a  crowd!  The  automobiles  was  goin'  all  the  time  on 
the  streets,  and  every  stoop  way  up  in  the  buildings 
stood  full  of  people.  I  don't  know  where  they  all 
come  from.  Lots  of  money  was  left  there  that  day. 
B'gosh,  if  I  had  it  all  I  don't  think  I'd  need  to  work 
any  more.  I  guess  every  man  there  spent  much  as  a 
dollar." 

"I  liked  the  music,"  the  woman  said.     "My  good 


Housework 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  195 

gracious!  they  had  the  bands  from  everywhere  around, 
and  fed  'em  all  free." 

"Did  you  see  the  big  drum?"  Dick  asked.  "Must 
have  been  pretty  near  four  foot  across.  The  drummer 
understood  his  business.  By  golly!  if  he  could  n't 
use  his  arms!  They  played  the  band,  sir,  up  till  ten 
o'clock,  when  the  last  train  left.  People  from  here  had 
to  drive  over  the  mountain.  There'd  been  rain  the 
night  before;  so  the  mud  was  deep,  and  it  was  awful 
nasty  goin'." 

"Bill,"  the  woman  said,  "I  want  you  to  look  at  this 
picture,"  and  she  wiped  the  dust  off  a  faded,  rudely 
framed  photograph  and  handed  it  to  him. 

It  showed  the  village  schoolhouse  with  the  children 
seated  on  a  low  pile  of  wood  beside  the  building.  "That 
was  made  when  I  went  to  school,"  Bill  said,  "and  here's 
me  right  in  the  middle.  I  ain't  much  bigger'n  a  big 
rabbit.  There  used  to  be  forty  or  fifty  children  went 
in  those  days." 

"When  I  was  a  girl,"  the  woman  said,  "I  lived 
farther  up  the  valley  and  went  to  a  stone  schoolhouse 
that  they  called  the  little  stone  jug.  We  mostly  had 
men  teachers.  They  were  hired  for  three  months,  and 
paid  ten  dollars  a  month,  and  they  would  board 
round.  A  man  would  teach  for  three  months  on  the 
money  that  was  raised  in  the  taxes,  and  then  perhaps 
he'd  go  through  the  deestrict  and  git  signers  who'd 
agree  to  pay  him  so  much  a  head  to  have  the  school 
another  three  months.  There's  men  I  knowed  who 


196    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

teached  steady  till  they  were  fifty  or  sixty  years  old — 
made  a  business  of  it.  I  remember  one  woman,  too, 
who  was  at  it  nearly  all  her  life.  She  went  from  one 
deestrict  to  another,  and  they  could  n't  down  her. 
She  was  smart,  but  as  she  got  older  she  wa'n't  up-to- 
date  enough.  She  was  like  a  minister — he  gits  behind 
the  door  a  little,  and  they  want  some  one  younger. 

"In  my  time  every  scholar  had  to  find  his  own  books. 
Now  they're  found  for  'em.  I  never  got  to  go  to  school 
such  an  awful  sight,  but  I  know  I  had  an  Elementary 
Spelling  Book.  The  schoolbooks  hain't  near  as  easy 
as  they  used  to  be.  I  see  that  the  spelling  books  now 
have  the  pronounciation  into  'em  besides  just  the 
words,  and  the  children  have  to  learn  how  to  talk  high- 
toned.  Some  of  the  new  notions  ain't  sensible. 
George's  kids  are  learning  to  spell  cow  and  such  words, 
and  they  don't  know  their  letters.  How  can  they  git 
along  that  way?  We  used  to  have  to  behave  pretty 
good.  The  master  had  a  big  twisted  hickory,  and  when 
a  boy  would  n't  mind  he'd  take  that  and  give  him  a 
lickin'." 

"Nowadays,"  Bill  said,  "if  the  children  do  anything, 
the  teacher  talks  to  'em  and  let's  'em  go,  and  they  do 
it  again  directly;  or  she  makes  'em  stand  up  on  the 
floor,  and  what  do  they  care  for  that?  But  Lord  God! 
in  my  own  time  I've  seen  children  ruled  till  I  bet  their 
hands  was  sore  next  day." 

"I  hear  you're  goin'  to  take  some  of  your  sheep  to 
market  tomorrow,"  Dick  said. 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  197 

"Yes,"  Bill  responded,  "if  the  weather's  good.  Have 
you  seen  them  of  Ormy's?  His  lambs  are  older'n  mine, 
but  mine  are  bigger'n  hisn  are,  they've  growed  so  fast. 
That's  the  trouble  with  these  extra  early  lambs — they 
don't  grow,  and  besides  you  have  to  set  up  nights  and 
fool  around  with  'em  or  the  cold  weather'd  kill  'em. 
The  other  day  that  buck  of  mine  that  I  been  keepin' 
tethered  near  the  house  got  loose.  The  children  was 
playin'  in  the  road,  and  how  they  did  scatter  when  they 
see  him  comin'!" 

"That  'ar  sheep  come  clean  down  here  past  our 
hogyard,"  the  woman  said."  I  was  workin'  at  the  wood- 
pile cuttin'  some  wood,  and  I  got  over  the  fence.  He 
went  in  the  dooryard  and  knocked  Dick  endways. 
Buck  was  just  a-makin'  to  come  at  him  again;  but 
Dick  got  up  and  slammed  him  with  a  board  and  sent 
him  down  the  road  a-sailin'." 

"He  butted  me  off  my  feet  once  in  the  spring,"  Bill 
observed,  "and  I  caught  him  by  the  leg  and  pounded 
him  with  a  stone.  I  give  him  a  good  trimmin'  down. 
Since  that  time  he  don't  bother  me.  He'll  stand  and 
shake  his  head  and  look  at  me  through  the  fence — 
'Baa!'  but  that's  all." 

When  I  returned  to  the  store,  dinner  was  ready.  In- 
cluded among  those  who  gathered  about  the  table  was 
the  village  schoolma'a'm.  She  was  quite  youthful  and 
shy,  and  seemed  more  like  a  pupil  than  a  teacher.  I 
noticed  that  she  helped  with  the  lighter  housework. 
Probably  she  paid  a  lower  rate  for  her  board  in  conse- 


198    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

quence.  The  storekeeper  jokingly  remarked  that  she 
already  had  a  beau.  "Girls  of  courting  age  are  about 
as  scarce  as  white  mice  around  here,"  he  said.  "The 
same  fellow  that  was  goin'  with  the  last  teacher  is  goin' 
with  this  one.  The  other  teacher,  after  she  left,  turned 
him  down.  He  felt  pretty  bad,  but  he  wa'n't  heart- 
broken, and  soon  as  this  one  come  he  was  right  onto 
his  job.  He  calls  on  her,  and  takes  her  for  a  drive  now 
and  then,  and  if  she  goes  home  over  Sunday  or  on  a 
vacation  he'll  take  her  to  the  station  and  meet  her  there 
when  she  comes  back. 

But  the  young  people  don't  have  the  advantages 
they  used  to  have  for  courting,  now  that  there's  nothin' 
doin'  at  the  church.  Last  summer  a  minister  vol- 
unteered to  come  and  preach  every  other  Sunday,  and 
he  had  to  drive  from  a  town  eight  miles  away.  Hardly 
anyone  went,  and  yet  fifteen  years  ago  we  had  services 
regularly,  and  there  was  good-sized  congregations. 
People  would  come  three  or  four  miles  from  all  around 
and  hitch  their  teams  to  tieposts  in  the  yard  there  at 
the  church.  Every  year  we  had  Protracted  Meetings 
when  there'd  be  services  in  the  evening  right  along  for 
a  spell.  I  was  always  glad  when  the  dominie  an- 
nounced 'em,  because  I  knew  I'd  have  a  sporty  good 
time  with  the  girls.  The  dominie  generally  tried  to 
strike  a  time  in  the  early  fall  when  there  was  a  full 
moon,  but  'twould  have  suited  me  better  to  have  it  a 
little  dark.  There  was  one  fellow  who,  after  meetin', 
when  he  was  takin'  his  girl  to  where  she  lived,  always 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  199 

stopped  at  his  home  in  the  village  to  get  his  overcoat, 
and  while  he  was  gone  I'd  hug  her  and  give  her  two  or 
three  blame  nice  kisses. 

"I  remember  one  Sunday  afternoon  I  went  to  the 
new  teacher's  boarding-place  to  see  how  she  looked,  and 
the  people  there  had  me  stop  and  eat  supper  with  'em. 
Afterward  the  teacher  said  she  was  goin'  to  meetin,' 
and  I  says,  'Guess  I  might  as  well  walk  along,  too.' 

"We  had  n't  gone  far  when  I  says:  'It's  kind  o' 
gloomy  on  the  road.  Take  hold  of  my  arm,  and  I'll 
assist  you.' 

"Things  was  progressin'  very  nicely,  and  by  and 
by  I  says:  'If  you've  no  objection  I'll  walk  home  with 
you  tonight.  But  no  foolin'.  I  would  n't  go  out  before 
that  crowd  at  the  church  and  ask  you  and  get  a  refusal 
for  twenty  dollars.' 

"She  said  she  wouldn't  disappoint  me,  and  I  left 
her  at  the  church  door  and  went  in  and  sat  in  the  choir. 
Oh,  we  had  a  good  meetin',  but  I  got  away  as  soon  as 
I  could  when  it  was  over.  The  schoolma'am  was  out- 
side, and  another  feller  was  askin'  if  he  might  go  home 
with  her. 

"  'No  I  thank  you,'  she  says,  'I've  got  company  this 
evening.'  I  had  a  triumph  that  time. 

"I  don't  know  just  how  much  religion  people  got  at 
those  meetings.  It  was  more  excitement  than  anything 
else.  One  man  who  was  always  there  was  Jake  Stickles. 
How  he  would  pray!  What  he  said  was  pretty  sensible, 
but  there  was  no  end  to  it.  Sometimes  the  dominie 


2OO    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

would  have  us  sing  to  get  Jake  stopped,  and  very  likely 
after  we'd  sung  the  whole  piece  he  would  n't  have 
stopped  yet. 

"People  would  get  up  and  tell  their  experiences,  and 
they'd  urge  the  sinners  to  repent,  and  finally  they  got 
me  on  the  anxious  seat.  I  was  taken  in  on  probation, 
and  the  prospects  were  I'd  be  received  into  full  church 
membership  on  the  final  night.  Gee!  what  a  crowd 
there'd  be  on  that  last  Sunday  night!  But  I  did  n't 
think  I  could  keep  store  and  join  the  church  without 
bein'  a  hypocrite,  and  I  did  n't  want  people  to  say, 
'What  a  backslider  he  is!'  So  I  made  a  date  with  a 
girl  for  that  night  and  sat  up  with  her  till  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  I  wa'n't  at  the  church  at  all  and  they 
gave  me  up  as  a  bad  case. 

"Naturally,  after  the  Protracted  Meetings,  you  could 
look  for  weddings.  Those  are  very  simple  affairs  here. 
You  go  to  a  justice  of  the  peace  and  get  hitched  and 
return  home.  We  don't  indulge  in  wedding  trips,  but 
I  know  one  feller  with  new-fangled  notions  who  did, 
and  he  had  n't  been  gone  more'n  a  day  or  two  before 
his  wife  got  so  homesick  he  had  to  bring  her  back.  The 
cost  of  getting  married  is  very  moderate.  A  fee  of  a  dol- 
lar or  two  satisfies  the  justice,  of  the  peace,  and  Squire 
Styers  used  to  do  the  job  for  a  bobsled  load  of  wood." 

Sunday  passed  and  Monday  came.  The  village 
work  began  at  dawn,  and  by  the  time  I  was  up  the  men 
were  busy  at  their  various  outdoor  tasks,  and  the 
women  had  started  washing.  Presently  I  betook  my- 


The  Water  Gap  and  Beyond  201 

self  to  the  highway  and  turned  my  footsteps  toward 
the  Water  Gap.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  warm  and 
bright.  I  could  see  the  glistening  wings  of  many  little 
flies  and  other  insects  playing  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
fields  were  alive  with  grasshoppers  and  crickets  fiddling 
merrily  and  wholly  unaware  that  the  frosts  would  soon 
put  an  end  to  them.  Sometimes  I  heard  the  clear, 
vigorous  call  of  a  white-throated  sparrow  migrating 
southward,  or  I  heard  the  rhythmic  "hammering"  of 
a  partridge  in  the  woodland,  and  once  I  scared  up  as 
many  as  twenty  quail  from  a  roadside  tangle  and  saw 
them  whir  away  in  wild  fright. 

Men  were  ploughing  on  the  hillsides,  sowing  grain, 
and  husking  corn.  The  generous  heaps  of  yellow  ears 
and  the  scattered  pumpkins  among  the  stacks  were 
grateful  to  the  eye,  and  cheered  one  with  the  sugges- 
tion of  winter  comfort.  Around  the  houses  too  were 
many  evidences  of  the  harvest — strings  of  seed  corn, 
ripening  tomatoes  brought  in  from  the  garden,  heaps 
of  melons  and  squashes,  apples  and  nuts. 

So  I  went  on,  sometimes  picking  up  an  apple  to  eat 
under  a  roadside  tree,  or  perhaps  pausing  to  gather  a 
few  frost  grapes;  and  though  I  doubt  not  that  the 
valley  here  has  charm  at  any  season,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  it  must  be  at  its  best  as  I  saw  it  in  those  mellow 
days  of  autumn. 

NOTES. — The  gorge  where  the  Delaware  flows  through  the 
Kittantinny  Mountains  is  supposed  to  be  the  result  of  a  large  lake 
breaking  its  bounds.  This  theory  is  borne  out  by  the  Indian  name 


2O2    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Minisink  which  applied  to  the  country  above,  and  which  means 
"the  water  is  gone."  Only  by  taking  a  trip  through  the  gap  in  one 
of  the  rowboats  or  power  boats  that  are  for  hire  can  you  get  an  ade- 
quate impression  of  its  two-mile  length  and  of  the  height  of  its 
rocky  walls  rising  1,500  feet  almost  from  the  water's  edge.  There 
are  in  the  vicinity  numerous  vernal  roadways,  sylvan  paths,  water- 
falls, and  outlooks  from  cliff  and  hill  and  mountain-top  that  entice 
one  to  a  prolonged  stay. 

The  automobile  route  from  here  to  New  York  by  way  of  Morris- 
town,  79  miles,  is  mostly  good  macadam.  A  more  interesting  route 
is  that  along  the  river  south  to  Philadelphia,  118  miles,  mostly  good 
roads.  Trenton,  73  miles,  is  the  capitol  of  the  state.  It  is  at  the 
head  of  navigation  of  the  Delaware.  Great  quantities  of  peaches 
and  cranberries  are  raised  in  the  tributary  region.  General  Mc- 
Clellan  is  buried  in  Riverview  Cemetery  here.  Washington  crossed 
the  Delaware,  8  miles  to  the  north  on  Christmas  night,  1776,  in  a 
storm  of  sleet  and  snow,  to  attack  1,000  Hessians  quartered  in  the 
city.  He  captured  them  all,  evaded  Cornwallis,  defeated  the  British 
at  Princeton  and  retired  northward  to  Morristown.  Cornwallis, 
who  had  sent  his  trunks  on  board  ship,  intending  to  return  to  Eng- 
land, with  the  idea  that  the  war  was  over,  changed  his  mind. 

At  Bordentown,  7  miles  below  Trenton,  Joseph  Bonaparte,  elder 
brother  of  Napoleon,  and  at  one  time  King  of  Naples  and  King  of 
Spain,  bought  an  estate  of  1,400  acres  after  Waterloo.  Here  he 
lived  from  1815  to  1832  entertaining  many  illustrious  Frenchmen. 
The  estate  is  now  public  property  and  known  as  Bonaparte  Park. 

At  Burlington,  13  miles  farther  on,  is  the  house  in  which  J. 
Fennimore  Cooper  was  born,  and  the  birthplace  of  Captain  James 
Lawrence  of  "Don't  give  up  the  ship"  fame.  General  Grant  had 
his  home  here  during  the  Civil  War.  Giant  sycamores  to  which  the 
early  settlers  tied  their  boats,  still  enhance  the  beauty  of  drives 
along  the  riverbank. 

At  Camden,  just  across  the  river  from  Philadelphia,  can  be  seen 
the  house  of  Walt.  Whitman,  the  "Good  Gray  Poet." 


A  back  porch 


IX 


ALONG    SHORE    IN    JERSEY 

I  WOULD  have  been  glad  to  spend  my  time  in  some 
rustic  fishing  village  or  old-fashioned  farming  com- 
munity, but  the  entire  Jersey  shore  seems  to  have 
become  a  suburb  of  New  York  and  Philadelphia.  It 
has  not,  at  best,  much  scenic  attraction,  for  the  coast 
is  uniformly  low,  and  for  variety  it  is  mostly  dependent 
on  the  numerous,  wide  marshes,  and  a  network  of  salt- 
water inlets  along  the  ocean  borders.  So  far  as  hu- 
manity is  concerned  the  region  presents  just  two 
dominant  features:  First,  the  many  palatial  residences 
set  in  smooth,  luxuriant  grounds,  where  Nature  is  com- 
pelled to  behave  herself  and  to  present  at  all  times  a 
tidy,  dressed-up  appearance,  with  none  of  the  wildness 
and  gypsy  abandon  which  she  prefers;  second,  a 
succession  of  summer  resort  towns. 

I  stopped  at  one  of  these  resorts  by  advice  of  a  florid, 
talkative  man  I  met  on  the  train.  He  had  been  taking 
some  sort  of  liquid  refreshment  that  made  him  effusive, 
and  he  described  the  place  as  a  sort  of  heaven  on  earth. 
It  was  there  he  had  lived  at  a  former  period  in  his  career 
when  he  had  been  worth  half  a  million  dollars.  He 
even  told  me  what  hotel  I  ought  to  go  to — one  kept  by 
a  certain  John  A.  Casey.  "It's  near  the  station  and 


204    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

near  the  shore,"  he  said,  "and  you'll  get  solid,  old- 
time  comfort  there.  John  A.  will  make  you  feel  at 
home.  The  food  is  set  right  on  the  table,  and  he  carves 
himself.  If  you  want  more  of  any  particular  thing 
you  don't  have  to  ask  a  waiter  for  it,  because  it's  right 
there  before  you.  Yes,  you  go  and  put  up  with  John  A., 
and  the  food  and  the  pure  air  and  the  sound  of  the 
waves  will  give  you  a  splendid  rest  tonight,  unless 
you've  committed  murder." 

But  I  did  not  find  the  town  what  I  expected  from  the 
description  of  this  enthusiast.  Moreover,  it  was  the 
month  of  May,  and  the  hotels  were  not  yet  open  for 
the  season.  I  lodged  at  a  boarding-house  where  the 
landlady  only  allowed  me  to  stop  after  looking  at  me 
critically  and  asking  various  questions  to  determine 
whether  I  was  trustworthy.  Later  she  told  me  why 
she  needed  to  be  so  cautious.  She  had  been  swindled 
more  than  once,  and  as  recently  as  last  summer  a 
sporty  gang  of  young  men  she  had  harbored  sneaked 
off  with  their  luggage  without  paying  their  bill.  But 
she  was  glad  they  went  as  soon  as  they  did,  pay  or  no 
pay,  for  they  had  attempted  to  flirt  with  her  daughter, 
and  were  a  bad  lot  anyway. 

"Do  you  see  that  little  house  across  the  street?" 
she  continued.  "It  was  built  to  rent  by  a  neighbor  of 
ours  who's  a  baker.  When  it  was  ready  a  family  hired 
it  for  the  season  and  paid  the  first  month's  rent  in  ad- 
vance, as  is  the  custom.  They  had  their  servants  and 
appeared  to  be  rich  and  aristocratic,  and  the  baker 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  205 

congratulated  himself  on  getting  tenants  of  such 
quality.  They  patronized  the  bakery  freely  and  had 
what  they  bought  charged.  In  fact,  they  ran  accounts 
wherever  they  traded.  Why!  even  the  man  who  peddles 
fowls — Chicken  Harris,  we  call  him — had  to  wait  for 
his  pay.  He's  waiting  yet,  and  so  are  all  the  others. 
One  autumn  day  the  family  packed  up  their  belongings 
and  went  away.  The  baker  dunned  them  as  they  were 
leaving,  but  they  put  him  off  with  promises.  Their 
city  address  that  they  gave  him  was  false.  So  what 
could  he  do?  Appeal  to  the  law?  That  would  have 
been  too  expensive  and  troublesome.  He  could  n't 
do  a  thing." 

The  place  was  like  many  other  of  the  shore  resorts — 
a  monotonous  village  of  wooden  houses  that  had 
among  them  an  occasional  big,  ungainly  hotel.  The 
land  was  naturally  a  sandy  barren  that  did  not  en- 
courage grass  or  other  greenery,  and  trees  were  a 
rarity.  Few  of  the  homes  or  hotels  were  occupied 
except  in  the  burning  days  of  summer,  and  the  town 
was  "dead"  the  rest  of  the  year.  Where  land  and  sea 
met  were  ragged,  yellow  streaks  of  dunes,  their  bases 
assailed  by  the  waves,  and  their  upper  portions  worried 
by  the  winds. 

Of  all  the  places  I  saw  along  the  coast,  the  one  that 
I  enjoyed  most  was  Toms  River.  It  was  well  back 
inland  at  the  head  of  a  bay,  and  had  thus  escaped  the 
city  invaders,  and  was  tranquilly  old,  rather  than 
glaringly  new.  The  town  consisted  of  a  little  nucleus 


2o6    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

of  stores,  hotels,  churches,  and  other  public  buildings, 
including  a  solemn,  high-pillared  courthouse,  and  be- 
hind these  were  shady  residence  streets. 

On  my  first  morning  there  the  weather  was  gloomily 
doubtful.  Now  and  then  the  sun  gleamed  forth  faintly, 
but  for  the  most  part  I  could  only  see  low,  foggy 
clouds  scurrying  along  overhead.  An  old  man,  who 
had  come  up  from  the  lower  bay  with  a  motor  boatload 
of  clams,  remarked  that  he  "would  n't  wonder  if  the 
wind  got  around  to  the  west  and  blew  like  a  streak  o' 
gimblets  point  foremost."  But  toward  noon  the  mists 
suddenly  melted  away,  and  the  sun  shone  forth  with 
fervent  heat. 

The  motor  boat  was  tied  just  below  a  bridge,  close 
to  the  town  center,  and  the  wharf  there  was  a  common 
resort  for  loiterers.  Often  a  lounger  or  a  customer 
would  get  into  the  boat,  pry  open  a  few  clams,  and  eat 
the  dripping  bivalves  right  from  the  shell. 

Near  at  hand,  on  the  street,  was  a  rude  fishcart  from 
which  the  horse  had  been  detached;  and  its  patrons  and 
open  air  traffic  seemed  to  furnish  an  attractive  spectacle 
to  the  loafers  and  decrepit  of  the  town.  They  sat  or  stood 
on  the  adjacent  sidewalk  and  from  time  to  time  peered 
in  at  the  back  of  the  cart  to  watch  the  process  of  be- 
heading and  making  the  fish  ready  for  customers. 

"There  used  to  be  a  covered  wooden  bridge  where 
this  iron  bridge  is  now,"  one  of  the  men  said  to  me, 
"and  on  the  outside  was  a  footway.  One  day  a  Sunday- 
school  picnic  come  here  on  the  train  from  another  town. 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  207 

Let  me  see — mought  'a'  been  forty  years  ago.  The 
whole  crowd  of  'em  got  onto  the  footway,  and  it  broke 
in  the  middle,  and  down  they  slid  from  both  directions, 
like  they  was  on  a  chute,  into  twenty-five  feet  of  water. 
They  were  as  thick  as  eels  in  there.  It  seemed  as  if  a 
dozen  boats  were  on  the  spot  right  off  pulling  the  folks 
out  of  the  water,  but  they  could  n't  get  'em  all.  Five 
or  six  drownded,  and  it's  a  wonder  that  no  more  were 
lost." 

One  of  my  walks  took  me  along  the  northern  bay- 
side  where  the  land  sloped  up  into  mild  hills  that 
afforded  a  pleasant  outlook  over  the  broad  bay  with 
its  various  islands,  including  among  the  rest  Money 
Island,  so  named  because  long  ago  the  half  mythical 
Captain  Kidd  hid  some  of  his  wholly  mythical  treasure 
there.  After  a  while  I  stopped  to  drink  at  a  wayside 
well.  It  was  an  open  well  that  had  a  wooden  curb 
about  it,  and  the  water  was  obtained  by  lowering  a 
pail  hung  on  a  crotch  at  the  butt  end  of  the  pole.  While 
I  was  drinking,  a  gray,  stocky  man  accosted  me  from 
a  neighboring  dooryard.  He  evidently  had  the  leisure 
and  the  inclination  to  talk,  and  I  sought  the  shade  of  a 
convenient  tree  and  we  visited. 

At  the  backdoor  of  the  next  house  a  woman  with  a 
black  muffler  about  her  head  was  chopping  some  rub- 
bishy sticks  into  firewood.  Near  her  a  lank  elderly 
man  with  streaks  of  tobacco  juice  down  his  chin  was 
harnessing  a  horse  that  distinctly  exhibited  all  its 
bony  anatomy.  "They're  the  owners  of  that  well," 


2o8    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

my  companion  said.  "That's  a  pretty  shabby  lookin' 
place  of  theirs  ain't  it?  But  they've  got  plenty  of  land 
they  could  sell  at  a  high  price,  only  they're  so  old- 
fashioned  they  won't  part  with  it.  If  they  raise  enough 
stuff  to  keep  'em  through  the  winter  that's  all  they  care 
about.  They  never  have  a  cent  of  money.  The  fact  is, 
any  one  who's  lookin'  around  for  a  job  that  pays  big 
without  workin'  don't  want  to  attempt  farmin'  here. 

"I've  spent  most  of  my  life  in  New  York,  but  I  got 
tired  of  the  city.  It's  hubbub  and  everything  there — 
up  in  a  minute  and  down  in  a  minute;  and  one  day  I 
said  to  myself :  'Good  Lord!  what's  the  use?  I've  only 
got  one  life  to  live;'  and  I  quit  at  once. 

"You  may  wonder  why  I  came  here.  The  truth  of 
the  matter  is  there  was  a  woman  in  it.  My  wife  had 
lived  down  in  this  region  and  this  was  where  she  wanted 
to  have  a  home.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  buy  a 
farm.  I  don't  know  why.  I  ain't  fit  to  work  on  a  farm 
and  never  had  had  any  experience  on  one;  but  I  had 
the  luck  to  sell  out  soon  at  an  advance,  and  then  I  got 
this  little  place.  I  have  an  automobile,  and  when  I'm 
tired  of  that  I  get  into  my  motor  boat  and  go  fishing  or 
down  to  the  lighthouse  clamming.  That  boat  carries 
me  around  the  bay  like  clockwork. 

"I've  never  had  the  least  inclination  to  go  back  to 
the  city,  but  I  must  say  I  did  n't  appreciate  it  here  last 
winter.  The  bay  froze  over  solid,  and  all  these  fellers 
that  get  a  livin'  by  fishin'  came  near  starvin'  to  death. 
I  said  to  my  wife,  'If  a  man  happens  along  and 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  209 

wants  to  buy  this  place,  we'll  sell  it  and  go  to  Florida 
to  live.' 

"But  my  wife  said,  'Well,  Pa,  don't  get  discouraged. 
Most  likely  we  won't  have  such  a  winter  again.'  ' 

After  parting  with  this  contented  individual  I  con- 
tinued my  ramble,  but  it  presently  took  me  into  one  of 
the  summer  resort  villages,  and  then  I  went  back  to 
Toms  River. 

On  another  day  I  followed  the  road  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Here  were  little  farms,  and  I  could  see  peas 
in  blossom  in  the  gardens,  and  ripe  strawberries.  The 
sweet  potatoes  in  the  hotbeds  were  ready  to  transplant, 
and  the  "white"  or  "round"  potatoes,  as  they  called 
the  Irish  variety,  were  six  inches  high.  The  corn  was 
up,  and  belligerent  scarecrows  stood  on  guard  among 
the  green  sprouts.  I  was  particularly  impressed  by  one 
of  these  fake  sentinels — a  trowsered  creature  adorned 
with  a  woman's  hat.  What  could  be  better  calculated 
to  carry  dismay  to  every  crow  beholder  than  this 
militant  suffragette? 

By  and  by  the  road  entered  a  ragged  tract  of  forest, 
and  the  woodland  was  so  forlorn  and  apparently  un- 
ending that  I  at  length  turned  back.  When  I  was  again 
among  the  farms  I  observed  two  women  visiting  on  a 
home  piazza.  I  stopped  for  a  drink  of  water  and 
lingered  to  chat  with  them.  They  addressed  each  other 
as  Emma  and  Harriet.  The  latter  was  making  a  neigh- 
borly call.  The  house  was  a  bare,  rusty-looking  struc- 
ture, and  there  was  brushland  across  the  road  and  close 


2IO    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

behind  the  dwelling.  Yet  the  women  seemed  to  admire 
the  environment  and  called  my  attention  to  the  beauty 
of  the  brushy  ridge  beyond  the  highway. 

"That  was  burnt  over  a  few  years  ago,"  Emma  said. 
"Oh  my!  it  was  a  bad  fire.  You  see  that  there  oak  tree 
in  the  corner  of  the  yard.  The  fire  killed  the  half  toward 
the  road,  and  we  did  n't  dare  stay  here.  From  the  next 
house  we  could  n't  see  this  one  through  the  smoke. 
When  the  fire  got  to  the  swamp — wo-o-o-o!  it  made  a 
great  racket. 

"In  one  way  the  forest  fires  are  a  great  help.  The 
year  after  a  tract  is  burned  over  you  find  the  black- 
berries and  huckleberries  growing  there  to  beat  the 
band.  The  children  all  go  out  in  the  woods  to  pick  'em. 
That's  a  way  they  have  of  earnin'  pin  money. 

"Cranberries  are  quite  a  crop  here.  The  Eyetalians 
pick  most  of  them.  When  they  get  good  pickin'  they 
sing  all  day  long.  But  if  the  pickin'  is  poor  they  do 
more  talkin'  and  less  singin'.  They're  the  happiest 
people  on  earth." 

"One  of  'em  had  an  adventure  with  a  snapping 
turtle  last  fall,"  Harriet  remarked.  "He  was  tellin' 
me  about  it  just  after  it  happened,  but  he  could  n't 
speak  English  very  well  and  did  n't  know  the  name  for 
turtle.  So  he  imitated  its  motions  to  show  what  animal 
he  meant  and  called  it  a  son  of  a  gun.  He  said:  'That 
son  of  a  gun,  he  got  hold  of  my  pants  right  here  above 
my  shoe,  and  I  try  to  pull  him  off,  and  the  more  I  pull 
the  more  that  son  of  a  gun  won't  let  go.  I  pulled  till 


Reflections 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  211 

I  tore  my  pants,  and  that  son  of  a  gun,  he  got  a  piece 
of  my  pants  now.'  His  way  of  tellin'  it  was  so  funny 
that  I  laughed  till  I  thought  I'd  bust." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  snappers  from  my 
own  experience  and  don't  want  to,"  Emma  commented, 
"but  if  one  once  gets  hold  he  never  lets  go,  they  tell 
me.  You  can't  even  pry  his  jaws  apart,  and  if  you  kill 
him  he'll  live  two  or  three  hours  afterward.  They're 
very  good  to  eat.  Snapper  soup  is  considered  the 
thing,  you  know,  among  the  high-toned  city  people." 

"Shoo! shoo!" 

This  exclamation  came  simultaneously  from  both 
the  women.  A  crow  flying  past  had  made  a  downward 
dip  toward  the  chickens  in  the  back  yard.  "The 
hawks  and  crows  have  lifted  quite  a  number  of  my 
chickens  this  spring,"  said  Emma. 

"My  place  is  in  the  woods,"  Harriet  observed,  "and 
I'm  more  troubled  by  the  tramp  dogs.  They're  dogs 
that  don't  belong  to  nobody,  and  they  go  in  the  swamps 
and  run  the  rabbits.  You  can  hear  'em  yelpin'  all  night 
long.  But  no  matter  how  much  chasin'  they  do,  nothin' 
is  said;  and  yet  if  one  of  your  own  dogs  was  to  get 
after  the  rabbits  the  game  warden  would  arrest  you, 
and  you'd  be  fined  twenty  dollars.  There's  seven  of 
them  tramp  dogs.  I  know  because  I've  counted  'em 
till  I've  got  sick  of  lookin'  at  'em.  They  took  twenty- 
two  of  my  chickens  one  night,  and  they  took  my  full- 
blooded  cochin  rooster.  All  I  could  find  of  him  was  a 
few  of  his  tail  feathers.  Last  night  I  lost  six  eggs  right 


212    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

out  from  under  a  settin'  hen.  Probably  rats  took  'em. 
Yes,  chickens  are  quite  a  care,  but  when  you  look  to  it 
the  exercise  you  get  makes  it  worth  while.  Keeping 
the  big  ones  from  fighting  the  little  ones,  scaring  off 
the  hawks  and  other  enemies  brings  more  stiffness  out 
of  your  joints  than  anything  else. 

"We  all  raise  chickens.  When  they  get  growed,  if 
prices  are  high,  we  sell  'em,  and  if  prices  are  low  we 
put  'em  in  the  pot  for  our  own  eatin'.  Same  way  with 
eggs.  We  eat  'em  when  the  price  is  down,  and  stop 
eatin'  'em  when  the  price  is  up.  At  present  feed  for 
the  chickens  costs  enough  to  drive  you  to  the  poor- 
house.  But  no  matter  how  poor  we  are  we  all  manage 
to  have  washing  machines  and  a  good  share  of  the  other 
latest  conveniences.  You  may  not  find  us  a  beautiful 
people  here  in  Jersey,  but  we're  substantial." 

"I've  only  heard  the  Bob  White  four  times  this 
spring,"  Emma  said.  "Looks  as  if  there  would  n't 
be  many  for  the  hunters  in  the  fall." 

"Well,"  Harriet  said,  "just  the  same,  every  man 
who's  got  a  dog  and  can  handle  a  gun  will  be  out  the 
first  day  of  the  gunnin'  season  to  see  what  he  can  get. 
Rabbits  are  plenty.  There's  no  end  to  'em.  They  eat 
off  the  bark  from  the  young  trees  and  ruin  'em,  and  if 
you  have  sweet  potatoes  or  peas  near  the  woods  they'll 
clean  'em  right  off.  Out  there  in  my  walk  I  see  'em 
early  every  mornin'  and  after  four  o'clock  in  the 
evenin'  playing  tag." 

"Tonight   there'll    be    lots   of   mosquitoes,"    Emma 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  213 

remarked.  "The  wind  is  in  the  south,  and  they'll 
blow  up  from  the  salt  marshes  where  they  breed. 
They're  hateful  things,  but  people  who  live  here  get 
used  to  'em  and  ain't  affected  by  the  poison  so  as  to 
get  all  blotched  up  as  strangers  do." 

"The  first  crop  of  mosquitoes  are  big  ones  this  year," 
Harriet  observed,"  and  their  instruments  are  long  and 
sharp.  Emma,  ain't  you  goin'  to  have  this  porch  closed 
in  with  mosquito  netting?  Most  every  one  is  doing  it 
now." 

"What  troubles  me  most  is  the  pine  flies,"  Emma 
said.  "They're  no  larger  than  a  house  fly,  but  when 
they  get  onto  you  they're  enough  to  make  you  say  your 
prayers  the  other  way;  and  they're  awfully  tormentin' 
to  the  animals.  Another  pest  is  what  we  call  the  green- 
head  fly.  It's  much  larger  than  the  pine  fly,  and  its 
bite  is  like  the  cut  of  a  knife.  They  don't  bother  much 
on  cloudy  days." 

"There's  lots  of  treetoacls  around  my  house,"  Harriet 
said,  "and  they  sing  lovely  when  it's  goin'  to  rain. 
Some  claim  they're  as  poison  as  a  rattlesnake  if  they 
bite  you." 

"I  wish  our  place  was  within  sight  of  the  ocean," 
Emma  remarked.  "The  hill  back  of  us  hides  it,  but 
we  can  hear  the  roar  of  the  waves  when  there's  a  north- 
east storm.  In  some  respects,  though,  we've  got  ad- 
vantages that  can't  be  beat.  We're  so  placed  that  we 
get  three  different  kinds  of  air — sea  air,  inland  air,  and 
air  from  the  pines.  It's  a  good  region  for  invalids. 


214    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Those  who're  afflicted  and  ain't  benefited  in  one  spot 
can  move  a  little  way  and  get  another  sort  of  air  that'll 
help  them.  The  balsam  from  the  pines  is  just  what 
some  of  'em  need,  and  often  a  person  who  can't  sleep 
has  a  pillow  made  of  pine  needles  to  put  under  his  head. 
Our  climate  is  goin'  to  build  up  this  section  wonderful 
in  the  next  few  years.  There's  that  big  brushy  tract 
across  the  road — it  was  all  sold  off  for  building  lots 
once.  The  promoters  drew  a  map,  like  they  all  do 
when  they're  boomin'  such  property,  and  they  put 
avenues  on  it,  and  had  pictures  of  a  hotel  on  the  land 
with  trolleys  runnin'  in  front,  and  their  advertising 
told  what  splendid  railroad  felicities  we  have  here.  The 
people  up  in  New  York  bought  the  lots  like  hotcakes, 
but  they  lost  all  they  invested,  for  the  fellows  who  did 
the  selling  did  n't  own  the  property;  and  the  chief  man 
in  this  hoax  business  was  sent  to  jail." 

While  we  were  talking  a  young  man  who  was  board- 
ing at  the  house  joined  us.  He  was  introduced  to  me  as 
a  person  who  was  staying  there  a  spell  to  recover  from 
an  attack  of  malaria.  "  But  he  ain't  got  it  the  way  they 
used  to  have  it,"  Emma  affirmed.  "They  had  it  so 
they'd  shake  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"I  been  consultin'  a  doctor,"  the  boarder  said,  "but 
he's  like  all  the  rest  of  'em  now — prescribes  the  fresh 
air  cure  for  everything.  There's  nothin'  worse  in  the 
world,  I  believe.  It  stands  to  reason  that  when  you're 
sick  you  ought  to  keep  out  of  a  draught,  not  get  into 
one." 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  215 

"Old-fashioned  people  used  to  doctor  themselves  a 
good  deal,"  Emma  observed.  "To  break  up  a  cold 
they'd  get  you  into  a  perspiration  with  hot  poultices. 
But  of  course  you  ought  to  take  doctor's  medicine,  too, 
even  if  it  don't  seem  to  make  a  great  sight  of  difference." 

"I'm  a  draughtsman  for  a  real  estate  concern,"  the 
boarder  said,  "and  I  was  interested  in  hearin'  what 
you  said  about  the  sellin'  of  this  property  across  the 
road.  You  was  talkin'  about  it  when  I  come  out  of  the 
house.  The  head  of  my  firm  is  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
church  he  attends,  and  he  claims  a  man  can  be  a  good 
church  member  and  sell  real  estate,  but  I  don't  believe 
it.  I've  seen  too  much  of  their  doin's,  and  the  fancy 
literature  they  send  out.  Even  the  best  of  'em  do  some 
things  that  are  a  little  off  color.  My  firm  has  photo- 
graphs made  of  their  properties  and  then  tell  the 
photographer  what  trees,  pavements,  and  other  im- 
provements they  want  put  in  before  the  final  prints 
are  made  to  sell  from. 

"At  one  time  the  firm  advertised  a  property  near 
Elizabeth  in  this  state,  and  said  it  was  within  sight  of 
New  York.  Well,  it  was,  if  you  went  high  enough  in 
the  air.  They  sold  to  customers  in  Canada  and  all 
around.  The  lots  looked  like  good  investments  if  you 
believed  the  promoters'  statements.  Some  of  the  lots 
were  right  in  the  middle  of  a  swamp  where  the  water 
stood  a  foot  deep  after  a  rain." 

"I  read  in  the  paper,"  Harriet  said,  "that  a  rich 
philanthropist  had  bought  thousands  and  thousands 


216    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

of  acres  in  Davenport  just  east  of  here  and  proposes 
to  start  a  prosperous  farm  settlement  there  of  poor 
people  from  the  cities.  It  tells  how  attractive  the  region 
is,  and  says  the  land  is  first-class.  That's  a  big  He. 
It's  the  most  deserted,  God-forsaken  sand-place  you 
ever  saw." 

"If  they  want  to  get  crops,"  Emma  said,  "they'll 
need  to  put  other  soil  over  that  there  land.  It  won't 
hardly  grow  sandburs,  and  they  say  that  even  the 
mosquitoes  starve  to  death  there." 

When  I  rose  to  go  Harriet  asked  me  to  notice  a  large, 
old-fashioned  house  I  would  pass  on  my  way  to  town. 
"It  ain't  built  straight  with  the  road,"  she  said,  "but 
is  placed  so  the  sun  at  noontime  shines  straight  in  the 
front  door.  There's  lots  of  houses  through  the  woods 
here  that  have  real  Dutch  doors  in  'em — doors  that  are 
divided  across  the  middle,  and  you  can  open  the  upper 
half  and  look  out." 

By  the  time  I  was  back  in  the  town  it  was  dusky 
evening.  A  full  moon  in  the  east  was  gradually  grow- 
ing golden  as  the  twilight  deepened.  Swallows  were 
twittering  and  darting  above  the  village  roofs  and  trees. 
Here  and  there  were  people  strolling  on  the  walks  or 
loitering  in  front  of  the  stores.  On  the  piazza  of  my 
hotel  the  landlord  and  some  friends  were  talking 
politics.  The  landlord's  manner  was  impressively 
assured,  and  he  offered  to  bet  on  the  Tightness  of  his 
opinions  a  generous  portion  of  a  roll  of  bills  he  had 
taken  from  his  pocket  and  was  waving  about. 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  217 

A  little  later  I  called  on  a  retired  sea  captain  of  whom 
I  had  heard.  I  found  him  in  his  parlor — a  man  of  more 
than  fourscore  years,  but  erect  and  vigorous — playing 
cards  with  his  wife  in  the  waning  light.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ing sight  to  see  their  companionableness  as  they  sat 
there  by  the  window  in  the  serene  twilight  of  the  day, 
and  the  no  less  serene  twilight  of  their  lives. 

In  response  to  my  questions  he  recalled  conditions 
in  the  vicinity  as  they  used  to  be  in  his  youth.  "This 
is  naturally  a  wooded  country,"  he  said,  "and  used  to 
be  covered  with  heavy  pine  timber,  as  pretty  as  ever 
was  seen.  The  tree-trunks  were  as  big  as  beer  kegs; 
and  there  was  fine  cedar  in  the  swamps.  Some  good 
cedar  is  still  left  over  near  Double  Trouble.  That's  a 
name  was  given  to  the  place  because  the  dam  they  first 
put  in  there  went  out  right  after  it  was  finished  and 
they  had  to  rebuild. 

"Perhaps  you  wonder  about  the  name  of  this  place. 
Some  say  it  comes  from  an  Indian  named  Tom  who 
lived  here,  but  that's  not  certain.  This  used  to  be  a 
great  resort  of  the  Indians.  They  came  long  distances 
to  get  fish  and  oysters.  I've  ploughed  up  a  many  of 
their  spear  heads  and  pieces  of  pottery,  and  dug  up 
skulls.  Now  and  then  I'd  find  axe-heads,  but  I  did  n't 
think  anything  at  all  of  'em  then  and  would  throw 
'em  up  side  of  the  fence.  They'd  be  quite  a  curiosity 
now. 

"Before  coal  became  the  common  fuel  they  loaded 
vessels  with  cordwood  at  our  wharves  to  go  to  New  York. 


21 8    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

I  was  a  good-sized  boy  before  I  ever  saw  coal.  We 
shipped  away  timber  and  cordwood,  and  we  made 
charcoal,  and  the  fires  run  over  the  old  forest  lands  and 
left  nothing  but  desert.  The  topsoil  has  been  burned 
off  so  that  such  timber  as  grew  here  in  the  past  won't 
be  possible  again  under  the  most  favorable  conditions 
for  hundreds  of  years. 

"My  father  had  about  fifteen  cows.  In  the  early 
morning  they  fed  on  the  salt  meadows;  but  by  ten 
o'clock  the  mosquitoes  was  usually  bad  and  the  cows 
went  to  the  swamps.  Animals  get  fat  on  that  salt 
grass.  It's  clean,  with  no  garlic  into  it,  and  makes  the 
nicest  kind  of  butter.  Plenty  of  cattle  have  never  e't 
any  hay  but  that  from  the  salt  meadows.  People  mow 
what  they  don't  pasture,  but  it  takes  three  acres  to 
produce  now  what  one  formerly  did.  They  cut  it  too 
late.  They'll  go  right  onto  the  meadows  with  their 
mowing-machines  in  October,  and  that  leaves  the 
ground  bare  to  freeze  in  winter. 

"Our  cows  were  always  milked  by  she-males.  The 
generality  of  men  did  n't  milk  then,  but  they  have  to 
now.  A  girl  would  feel  insulted  if  she  was  asked  to 
milk  a  cow  in  these  days.  That's  what  she  would,  and 
I  don't  believe  a  cow  would  let  a  girl  come  near  her. 

"All  the  women  and  girls  were  workers  when  I  was 
young,  and  in  planting  time  and  haying  and  harvest 
they'd  turn  right  in  and  help  a  few  days  outdoors.  A 
girl  of  twelve  could  drop  corn  as  well  as  a  man  fifty 
years  old.  The  housekeeping  was  simpler  then  than 


The  Scarecrow 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  219 

at  present,  or  the  women  could  n't  have  managed  it. 
Houses  averaged  smaller,  and  contained  less  furniture, 
and  there  was  n't  so  much  ceremony  about  serving 
the  food.  Anyone  coming  to  the  table  after  others  had 
got  through  would  eat  off  the  first  one's  plates.  That 
would  n't  do  now,  but  if  in  some  way  we  could  make 
our  modern  homes  less  of  a  care  I  don't  doubt  that  the 
women's  health  would  be  better.  They'd  feel  more 
comfortable  in  mind  and  body,  too,  if  they  could  work 
a  part  of  the  time  in  the  open  air.  But  the  human 
animal  is  naturally  lazy,  and  as  a  rule  we  all  avoid 
tasks  that  we're  not  forced  to  do  by  necessity  or 
fashion. 

"When  I  began  voyaging,  about  1850,  the  New 
Yorkers  who  wanted  to  come  to  the  shore  in  this  direc- 
tion would  rarely  go  farther  than  Long  Branch,  and 
none  of  the  other  resorts  were  much  developed.  I'll 
be  darned  if  there  was  a  single  hotel  at  Atlantic  City, 
and  it  was  a  lonely  coast  all  along.  Men  who  came 
gunning  got  any  quantity  of  game — snipe  and  ducks 
and  geese.  I've  seen  the  ducks  fly  up  so  thick  they 
almost  hid  the  sun.  That  would  n't  be  just  one  time, 
but  day  after  day  for  three  or  four  months.  Now  you 
would  n't  see  more  than  one  or  two  game  waterfowl  in 
a  week.  The  trouble  is  they  get  no  chance  to  breed  in 
a  region  so  thickly  populated.  There's  seldom  a  mile 
of  coast  without  its  residence,  and  if  you  sail  along  of 
an  evening  you  find  it  lighted  the  entire  distance  from 
Cape  May  to  New  York." 


22O    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

NOTES. — The  most  conspicuous  feature  of  the  northern  Jersey 
coast  is  Sandy  Hook,  which  forms  one  of  the  portals  of  New  York 
Bay.  It  is  occupied  by  an  old  stone  fort,  3  lighthouses,  and  a  United 
States  Army  Ordnance  Station  where  guns  are  tested. 

An  automobile  route  from  New  York  follows  the  coast,  as  closely 
as  the  inlets  and  marshes  will  permit,  even  to  Cape  May.  The  roads 
are  generally  excellent.  Near  Highlands,  at  the  southernmost 
nook  of  New  York  Harbor,  is  Water  Witch  Park,  which  takes  its 
name  from  Cooper's  "Water  Witch,"  a  novel  that  has  its  scene  laid 
in  the  vicinity. 

A  seaside  resort  with  an  individuality  of  its  own  is  Ocean  Grove. 
It  was  established  in  1870  by  a  Methodist  association,  and  is  now 
frequented  yearly  by  over  20,000  people,  both  young  and  old,  who 
elect  to  spend  their  summer  vacations  under  a  religious  autocracy. 
The  grounds  have  the  sea  on  the  east,  lakes  north  and  south,  and  a 
high  fence  on  the  west.  At  10  in  the  evening,  daily,  the  gates  are 
closed,  and  they  are  not  opened  at  all  on  Sunday.  No  Sabbath 
bathing,  riding,  or  driving  is  permitted,  and  no  theatrical  perform- 
ances are  allowed  at  any  time.  Drinking  of  alchoholic  beverages 
and  the  sale  of  tobacco  are  strictly  prohibited.  Innumerable  re- 
ligious meetings  are  held  daily.  The  chief  place  of  assemblage  is  a 
huge  auditorium  that  can  accommodate  10,000  people.  The  annual 
camp  meeting  is  the  great  event  of  the  season. 

Those  who  prefer  a  more  free  and  easy  enjoyment  of  their  vaca- 
tions can  find  plenty  of  opportunity  at  the  other  coast  resorts. 
There  is  Long  Branch,  for  instance,  with  a  permanent  population 
of  12,000,  and  a  summer  population  of  5  times  that  number.  It 
occupies  a  seaward  facing  bluff  which  rises  to  a  height  of  about  30 
feet  above  the  beautiful  sandy  beach.  At  Elberon,  the  fashionable 
cottage  part  of  the  resort,  can  be  seen  the  dwelling  in  which  Presi- 
dent Garfield  died. 

Atlantic  City,  the  most  frequented  of  all  American  seaside  re- 
sorts, is  on  a  sandstrip  separated  from  the  coast  by  5  miles  of  sea 
and  salt  meadows.  In  August  the  visitors  who  flock  there  from  all 


Along  Shore  in  Jersey  221 

over  the  country  swell  the  number  of  inhabitants  to  about  200,000, 
and  more  than  50,000  have  bathed  in  the  sea  there  in  a  single  day. 
It  attracts  visitors  through  the  entire  year,  for  the  climate  is  com- 
paratively mild  and  sunny  even  in  winter,  and  the  air  is  exceedingly 
tonic.  The  beach  is  surpassingly  fine,  and  is  bordered  by  the 
famous  "Board  Walk."  This  walk  is  40  feet  wide  and  over  5  miles 
long,  and  is  flanked  on  the  landward  side  by  hotels,  shops,  and 
places  of  amusement. 

Cape  May  is  a  rival  of  Atlantic  City  in  its  natural  attractions, 
but  is  not  quite  as  easily  reached. 

A  favorite  inland  resort  is  Lakewood,  63  miles  south  of  New 
York.  It  is  in  the  heart  of  the  pine  woods,  and  on  account  of  its 
sheltered  situation  and  mild  climate  it  is  much  frequented  in  winter. 


X 


A    GLIMPSE    OF    DELAWARE 

THE  landscape  had  been  freshened  by  showers 
the  previous  day  and  now  was  smiling  in  the 
caresses  of  the  bright  sunshine.  A  brisk  breeze 
wafted  the  grain  in  the  big  wheatfields  into  long  green 
waves,  and  brought  in  at  the  open  car  windows  the 
odor  of  strawberries  and  clover  blossoms.  The  level 
farmlands  looked  fertile  and  well-tilled,  and  the  farm 
homes  had  a  pleasing  aspect  of  prosperity  and  com- 
fort. 

"Delaware  farmers  are  more  industrious  than  when 
I  was  a  boy,"  a  train  acquaintance  remarked.  "These 
are  nice  places  we're  seein',  and  kep'  up  in  good  style. 
Corn  and  wheat  used  to  be  about  all  the  farmer  raised, 
but  now  they  put  their  dependence  more  on  berries 
and  early  produce.  It's  a  good  place  for  a  poor  man  to 
raise  everything  he  wants  to  eat  with  very  little  exer- 
tion and  have  some  to  spare. 

"See  those  pine  logs  lyin'  there  by  that  freight  sta- 
tion. We  would  n't  use  to  ship  such  like  stuff — we 
would  n't  touch  it.  It's  bull  pine,  and  that's  nothin' 
more  than  a  tree  weed,  and  is  tough  and  warps  around 
so  you  can't  hardly  manage  it.  But  if  you  want  to 
put  up  a  barn  or  a  shed  it  does  for  a  makeshift. 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  223 

"They're  gettin'  to  have  very  good  roads.  I  can 
remember  when  travellin'  on  'em  was  a  hardship. 
They  were  all  standin'  water  in  the  winter  time.  Farm 
work  used  to  be  done  by  cattle  power,  and  if  a  man 
wanted  to  go  to  a  place  that  was  farther  away  than  he 
could  walk  he  stayed  at  home.  Many  a  man  had  no 
horse  at  all  and  lived  and  died  without  ever  owning 
one.  Log  houses  were  common  till  after  the  war,  and 
the  people  were  land  poor.  The  principal  part  of  the 
young  men  went  to  sea,  but  by  and  by  they  came  home 
tired  of  that  and  bought  land.  That  air  cut  the  farms 
up,  and  they've  learned  to  make  the  land  profitable 
so  that  I  bet  you  now  two-thirds  of  the  farmers  have 
bank  accounts.  You  ask  'em  how  they're  gettin'  on 
and  they'll  say,  'Oh,  we're  a-livin',  but  we  ain't  a 
makin'  much.' 

"Then  you  ask  if  they've  got  a  bank  account,  and 
they'll  acknowledge  they  have.  All  the  towns  have 
banks  these  days,  and  they  take  in  money  hand  over 
fist.  New  York  and  Philadelphia  always  used  to  be 
afraid  to  trust  any  man  livin'  in  the  state  of  Delaware 
for  a  five  cent  piece,  but  I  guess  they're  changin'  their 
minds  now.  It  looks  that  way  to  me." 

I  went  as  far  as  Lewes  at  the  mouth  of  Delaware 
Bay.  It  was  here  that  the  first  settlers  of  the  state 
from  across  the  Atlantic  established  themselves.  The 
place  has  never  grown  rapidly  and  is  still  half  rustic, 
and  abounds  in  delightful  old  mansions  that  are  hu- 
manized by  their  association  with  past  generations, 


224    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

and  that  nestle  amid  a  charming  luxuriance  of  greenery 
and  blossoms. 

The  dwellings  on  the  seaward  borders  of  the  town 
stand  on  ground  that  drops  abruptly  away  to  a  wide 
level  of  salt  marshes,  and  the  homes  on  "the  bank" 
are  commonly  spoken  of  collectively  as  "Pilot-town," 
because  so  many  pilots  live  there.  The  situation  is 
peculiarly  satisfactory  to  them,  for  they  like  to  live 
where  they  can  "spy  out  on  the  water."  At  the  far 
edge  of  the  marshes  are  sand  dunes,  one  of  which  rises  in 
a  vast  yellow  ridge  that  is  slowly  enveloping  a  pine  wood. 

"Sand  is  always  in  motion,"  a  local  man  observed 
to  me.  "It's  as  unstable  as  water.  You  sit  down  to 
eat  a  lunch  off  there  on  the  shore,  and  you  may  think 
there's  not  any  wind  at  all,  but  you'll  find  that  sand 
gets  into  your  bread  and  butter  just  the  same.  I've 
known  of  a  long  row  of  bath-houses  that  in  a  single 
winter  were  nearly  all  buried  out  of  sight  by  the  drift- 
ing sand." 

One  day  I  followed  a  roadway  across  the  marshes 
to  the  shore  of  the  bay.  Vessels  were  coming  and  going 
on  the  misty  gray  waters  and,  northward,  twelve  miles 
away,  was  Cape  May,  a  low  blue  streak  in  the  dim 
distance.  I  went  along  the  beach  toward  the  ocean. 
At  one  spot  were  a  few  fishermen's  shacks  on  the  dunes, 
and  farther  on  was  a  factory  that  made  a  business  of 
extracting  fish  oil  from  "porgies."  During  the  season 
a  fleet  is  kept  on  the  sea  catching  the  fish,  and  thou- 
sands of  barrels  are  filled  with  oil  each  week.  I  thought 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  225 

the  vicinity  was  odorous  to  the  limit  of  endurance, 
though  it  was  affirmed  that  the  season's  work  had  not 
yet  begun,  and  that  I  only  smelled  the  ghosts  of  last 
year's  oil-extracting.  "Besides,"  this  informant  said, 
"they  say  the  smell  is  healthy,  and  you  get  used  to  it 
and  don't  notice  it  after  a  while.  But  it  went  pretty 
hard  with  the  town  folks  when  the  factory  was  first 
built.  The  smell  blows  right  over  there  when  the  wind 
is  to  the  east'ard.  One  lady  said  she  had  to  get  up  in 
the  night  to  perfume  herself." 

At  length  I  crossed  a  sandy  point  where  the  bones  of 
many  a  staunch  ship  lay  imbedded,  and  had  before 
me  the  restless  billows  of  the  open  ocean,  and  could 
hear  a  bell  buoy  tolling  its  somber,  warning  notes. 
Where  sand  and  water  met  was  a  recent  wreck  with 
most  of  its  masts  still  standing.  But  the  hull  was 
badly  broken,  and  the  waves  were  roaring  and  dashing 
about  it  like  ravenous  beasts.  For  a  considerable  dis- 
tance I  continued  to  stroll  along  the  shore,  just  out 
of  reach  of  the  slither  of  foam  that  each  breaking  wave 
sent  far  up  the  incline  of  the  beach.  When  I  presently 
turned  my  footsteps  toward  the  town  I  decided  to 
make  a  short  cut  across  the  marshes.  But  as  soon  as 
I  left  the  dunes  and  was  down  on  the  low  ground  I 
stirred  up  a  horde  of  mosquitoes  in  the  coarse,  thin 
grass.  They  settled  on  my  clothing  and  clung  there, 
and  made  such  savage  assaults  on  my  face  and  hands 
with  their  poisoned  lances  that  I  shifted  my  course  to 
the  sandhills  where  these  pests  were  comparatively  few. 


226    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

It  was  supper-time  when  I  reached  my  hotel,  and 
most  of  the  guests,  and  the  proprietor  and  his  family, 
had  sat  down  to  eat.  As  I  took  my  place  the  landlord 
remarked  to  a  lady  at  a  table  adjacent  to  his,  "It's 
blustering  this  evening." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  responded,  "the  wind  comes  up  every 
evening  and  blows  like  the  dickens.  You  know  that, 
don't  you?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  much  of  anything, 
and  half  I  do  know  ain't  so." 

"Did  you  go  to  that  dance  last  night?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "and  my  girl  was  the  best  lookin' 
girl  there.  The  only  fault  I  had  to  find  was  that  she 
would  n't  stand  straight.  We  all  have  our  troubles. 
I  hearn  one  feller  complain  that  his  girl  could  n't  dance 
without  steppin'  on  his  feet.  Then  there  was  a  girl 
from  Wilmington  that  I  tried  to  be  pleasant  to;  but 
she  was  mad  because  she'd  sat  on  a  strawberry  and 
spotted  her  dress.  So  she  would  n't  talk." 

In  the  lingering  twilight  that  evening  I  visited  a 
negro  cemetery.  The  graves  clustered  about  a  plain 
little  church.  A  few  of  them  had  headstones  or 
wooden  markers,  but  evidently  there  was  nothing  to 
show  the  location  of  most  of  them  when  the  mounds 
disappeared.  The  two  most  conspicuous  headstones 
were  flat  slabs  of  cement,  each  with  a  heart  incised 
near  the  top.  The  lettering  had  been  roughly  cut  into 
the  cement  before  it  hardened.  Here  are  the  inscrip- 
tions : 


The  wreck 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  227 

ELIZABATH  CELE  BURTON 

W.  MAULL  BORND  IN  1891 

DIED  IN  AUG.  8  DIED  1903 

1896  DEC.  MAY  19 

9  AGE  44  SOON  TOO  MY 

SAFTE  IN  SLUMBERING 

THE  DUST  SHALL  HEAR 

ARMS  OF  THE  TRUMPHETS 

JESUS  IUECKING  SOUND 

That  peculiar  word  in  the  final  line  of  the  Burton 
stone  is  probably  meant  for  "quickening." 

While  I  was  looking  at  these  cement  works  of  art  a 
negro  laborer  on  his  way  home  from  the  fields  came 
through  the  cemetery,  stopped,  and  said:  "A  colored 
boy  described  those  out  and  made  them  himself.  He 
was  only  about  fifteen,  but  he  did  a  right  good  job." 

Along  the  path  that  led  from  the  street  to  the  church 
were  many  seemingly  new-made  graves.  I  fancied  an 
epidemic  had  been  sweeping  off  the  negro  dwellers  of 
the  town,  but  the  colored  worker  said:  "Oh,  no,  sir, 
the  graves  have  been  renewed  and  freshened  up  for 
Decoration  Day.  They  look  neater  to  keep  the  grass 
off,  but  we  only  trouble  to  do  these  along  the  walk. 
That's  the  oldest  part  of  the  cemetery  over  there  next 
to  the  dividation  line.  Often  when  we  are  digging  a 
grave  there  we  find  skull  bones  and  leg  bones  and  arm 


228    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

bones.  Of  co'se  we  naturally  did  n't  know  any  one 
was  buried  at  the  spot  we'd  picked  out.  Ginerally  we 
put  the  bones  back  right  where  they  were  and  dig  in 
another  place. 

"A  good  many  have  died  this  past  year.  For  one 
thing  we've  had  a  fearful  winter — the  worst  in  thirty- 
five  years.  It's  the  coldest  we  ever  experienced — I 
don't  except  none.  You  just  bet  you  had  to  keep  as 
near  the  stove  as  you  could  without  gettin'  burnt.  I 
hearn  sev'ral  talkin'  of  a  man  who  suffered  with  cold 
feet.  It  seemed  he  could  n't  get  'em  warm  nohow, 
and  finally  he  pulled  off  his  shoes  and  slapped  his  feet 
up  on  the  stove.  That  way  he  got  'em  a  little  warmer 
than  he  wanted  to,  and  they  held  so  much  heat  that 
afterward  he  could  n't  get  'em  cool. 

"You  mought  think  that  lots  o'  the  houses  you  see 
was  so  poorly  built  or  in  such  bad  repair  they  would  n't 
be  much  protection,  but  it's  my  idea  that  most  houses 
are  too  tight  to  be  healthy.  I  know  a  white  gen'leman 
who  lives  in  an  old  house  that's  never  been  fixed  up  in 
years.  If  he  goes  to  bed  at  night  and  there  comes  a 
snow,  he  feels  the  flakes  droppin'  down  on  his  face  from 
the  leaky  roof;  and  in  the  mornin'  he  jumps  right  out 
of  bed  into  a  snowbank.  He  has  six  or  eight  children, 
and  he  says  to  me,  'They  never  have  had  a  day's  sick- 
ness. But  I  confess,'  says  he,  'that  many  a  time  I 
would  n't  have  cared  if  the  house  had  been  a  little 
tighter.' 

"The  crops  are  lookin'  very  prosperous  this  season, 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  229 

ain't  they?  Last  year  we  had  n't  broke  up  any  ground 
at  this  time  it  was  so  dry.  You  could  n't  get  a  plough 
point  into  the  clay  land.  But  at  last,  some  way  or 
'nother,  most  men  managed  to  get  a  little  seed  planted. 
The  wheat  was  n't  putt  in  early  enough  though  for  it 
to  git  a  holt,  and  the  dry  weather  just  killed  it  dead. 
Our  corn  was  so  parched  up  we  did  n't  have  none 
noway,  and  the  strawberries  dried  and  cooked  right 
on  the  vines,  and  wa'n't  anything.  We  did  n't  have 
no  luck  with  our  potatoes  either.  Gosh!  the  for'ard 
potatoes  was  nothin',  and  the  late  crop  was  a  failery, 
too.  We  was  cut  short  on  everything.  Oh,  the  farmers 
was  torn  all  to  pieces  last  year." 

Another  negro  who  furnished  me  enlightenment  of  a 
picturesque  sort  was  a  gray,  elderly  man  whom  I 
accosted  the  next  day  as  he  was  hoeing  a  little  patch 
of  potatoes  beside  his  house. 

"Potatoes  are  not  up  where  I  live,"  I  said. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?  he  inquired. 

"From  Massachusetts,"  I  replied. 

"Good  land!"  he  exclaimed,  "you're  a  long  way 
from  home,  I  reckon.  Is  Massachusetts  in  the  north 
part  of  the  climate  or  the  south  part?" 

"The  north,"  I  said. 

"How  long  does  it  take  to  come  from  there  to  here?" 
was  his  next  question. 

When  I  had  satisfied  him  on  that  point  he  remarked 
that  he  did  not  usually  hoe  his  garden  except  in  the 
evening.  "I'm  hired  out  to  work  durin'  the  day,"  he 


230    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

said,  "but  this  mornin'  I  been  helpin'  my  wife  to  wash 
some.     She's  kind  o'  been  paralyzed. 

"See,  there's  some  potato-bug  eggs  on  that  leaf. 
About  a  thousand  bugs  would  hatch  out  of  them  eggs, 
so  I'll  just  pinch  'em  with  my  fingers.  Along  about 
the  last  o'  March  the  bugs  are  flyin'  all  over  this 
country.  If  there's  easterly  weather  at  that  time 
vessels  meet  great  rafts  of  'em  on  the  water,  and  you 
find  'em  heaped  up  on  the  beach.  That  shows  they 
come  from  some  foreign  place  where  it  don't  freeze. 
But  a  good  many  of  'em  stay  in  the  ground  here  all 
winter.  I've  dug  'em  out  in  February,  and  they  were 
as  much  alive  as  ever  they  are.  You  plant  your  pota- 
toes, and  the  bugs  come  right  up  with  'em  ready  to 
begin  eatin'.  Most  people  fight  'em  with  poison,  but 
I  don't  keer  to  do  that.  I  think  some  of  the  poison 
might  get  in  the  potatoes.  So  I  go  to  work  and  ketch 
the  bugs  and  pull  their  heads  off.  Then  I  know  they're 
done.  If  I  pick  'em  in  a  bucket  and  undertake  to 
mash  'em  with  my  foot  I'm  satisfied  that  some  of  'em 
live.  They're  pretty  tough.  I  wonder  that  they  don't 
try  to  get  away  by  flyin'.  They've  got  wings.  But 
they  act  like  a  possum — soon  as  you  touch  'em  they 
drop  and  act  as  if  they  was  dead — ha-ha-ha-ha!  They're 
jus'  tryin'  to  fool  you.  Everything  has  to  have  its 
little  smart  ways.  I  keep  pickin'  'em  off,  and  'bout  the 
time  I  think  I'm  cle'r  of  'em  the  eggs  are  comin'  on  to 
hatch.  I  don't  know  what  them  bugs  ever  originated 
from,  but  I've  always  kind  o'  thought  in  my  own  mind 


Setting  the  net 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  23 1 

it  was  from  guano.  We  never  had  no  such  thing  be- 
fore the  guano  and  stuff  began  to  be  brought  across  the 
ocean  here. 

"There  was  a  different  kind  o'  bugs  on  the  potatoes 
when  I  was  a  boy  a-comin'  up,  and  I'm  somewhere 
about  sixty-five  years  old  now.  Those  bugs  were  slim 
most  like  a  big  ant,  and  they  had  shell  wings  that  were 
black  with  a  little  white  streak.  There  were  lots  of 
'em,  but  you  could  drive  'em  off  with  a  switch.  You 
can't  drive  these  bugs.  There's  no  drive  in  'em. 

"Things  change,  don't  they?  Even  the  weather 
ain't  what  it  used  to  be.  Every  year  the  season  gets  a 
month  later  it  'pears.  If  we'd  ketch  a  good  open  spell 
in  the  old  times  we'd  get  all  our  ploughin'  done  in 
March.  But  sometimes  we'd  have  snows  and  blowin' 
and  freezin'  chuck  down  to  the  last  of  the  month. 
Many  a  time  I've  been  ploughin'  and  had  to  knock  off 
on  account  of  a  storm.  I'd  leave  the  plough,  and  the 
snow  would  kiver  it  up.  But  we  used  to  be  through 
thinnin'  our  corn  by  the  last  of  May,  and  we'd  com- 
mence to  lay  by  the  crop  right  after  the  Fourth  of 
July — quit  work  into  it,  you  understand.  Before  the 
end  of  September  the  harvest  would  be  all  in,  and  winter 
begun  and  we'd  have  little  scuds  of  snow.  Now  winter 
don't  start  so  soon,  but  you  got  to  look  out  for  hard 
weather  later  in  the  spring,  and  you  can  sleep  with  all 
the  covers  on  till  June.  Take  it  weather,  bugs,  and  all, 
the  farmin'  man  ain't  got  but  a  very  little  left  when 
he's  paid  his  help  and  his  fertilize  bill.  He  has  to  sell 


232    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

off  all  he's  raised,  and  that  leaves  him  down  with 
nothin'." 

This  colored  man  could  hardly  be  vouched  for  as  a 
competent  authority  on  agriculture,  and  I  quote  with 
more  confidence  a  town  farmer  with  whom  I  later 
became  acquainted.  "Land  sells  higher  and  higher 
all  the  time,"  he  said.  "Well,  sir,  the  farmers  are 
wakin'  up,  and  we  get  more  out  of  an  acre  raisin'  vege- 
tables and  small  fruits  than  we  used  to  get  out  of  a  half 
dozen  acres  of  corn;  and  I'll  tell  you  another  thing, 
Mister,  that  is  drivin'  the  price  of  land  way  up — people 
with  capital  are  not  foolin'  with  coal  and  oil  stocks  as 
they  did  once,  but  if  a  man  has  a  few  thousand  dollars, 
he  says,  'I'll  loan  it  out  here  on  farm  property  where  I 
know  what  I've  got.'  Farmin'  has  become  profitable 
because  the  cities  have  grown  so  enormously.  They 
look  to  us  to  supply  'em  with  food.  We  could  n't  do 
it  by  the  old  methods.  In  my  early  days  we  cut  all 
our  wheat  with  a  cradle,  and  it  was  pretty  near  a  day's 
work  to  cut  an  acre.  Now  we  go  in  with  a  reaper  and 
cut  twenty  acres  in  a  day.  Then  we  cut  all  the  hay 
with  scythes,  and  raked  it  up  by  hand.  Riding- 
machines  are  common  on  the  farms  now,  and  the  work 
is  far  less  laborious.  Fifty  years  ago  oxen  were  the 
farmers'  usual  draught  animals,  but  now  they're  too 
slow  and  have  nearly  disappeared. 

"Most  of  us  are  descendants  of  the  old-time  inhabi- 
tants and  have  been  around  these  diggings  all  our  lives. 
There's  very  few  furriners,  but  we  have  a  good  many 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  233 

negroes,  and  they're  a  very  prosperous  people.  They've 
got  schools,  and  they've  got  churches,  and  where  a 
colored  man  ten  years  ago  could  n't  pick  up  a  dollar 
he  can  now  pick  up  five. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  this  town  had  about  a  thousand 
inhabitants,  and  there  was  only  two  free  schools  in 
the  place,  and  those  two  did  n't  amount  to  a  great 
deal.  We  had  'Select  Schools'  that  were  better,  but 
if  you  went  to  them  you  had  to  pay  tuition  every 
quarter.  I'd  venture  to  say  that  the  little  clapboarded 
free  school  buildings  did  n't  cost  over  three  hundred 
dollars  apiece.  The  seats  had  no  backs,  and  they  were 
too  high  for  the  small  children.  So  the  little  ones  would 
sit  with  their  feet  dangling  and  kicking.  Oh,  mercy! 
we  did  n't  have  much  comfort  in  them  times.  We 
were  expected  to  be  on  hand  to  start  the  school  day  at 
eight  in  the  morning  and  were  n't  turned  loose  till 
five  in  the  evening. 

"School  commenced  in  the  fall  in  September  and 
went  on  about  six  months.  Out  in  the  country  they'd 
have  only  a  three  months'  winter  school  with  possibly 
another  month  in  the  summer  if  they  could  raise  the 
money  to  pay  the  teacher.  People  had  to  have  their 
children  to  work.  Wood  for  the  schoolhouse  stove 
was  furnished  by  the  families  that  sent  children.  It's 
pretty  skearce  around  here  now,  but  't  was  plenty  then, 
and  each  family  give  a  load.  We  had  men  teachers 
who  were  paid  twenty-five  to  thirty  dollars  a  month. 
They  were  men  who  followed  teaching  for  a  business, 


234    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

and  often  were  well  advanced  in  years.  They  did  n't 
teach  much  but  'rethmetic  and  history  and  grammar  and 
writing,  and  the  books  was  few  and  poor;  and  yet  if  I 
only  knew  all  there  was  in  them  books  I'd  be  satisfied. 

"Most  of  the  teachers  were  pretty  severe.  Generally 
they  taught  for  what  there  was  in  it,  and  as  a  natural 
consequence  they  were  cross.  If  a  boy  did  n't  behave 
the  teacher  would  take  him  by  the  hand  and  rule  him. 
I  used  to  be  punished  that  way  or  switched  pretty 
often,  and  I  needed  more  punishing  than  I  got,  but  I 
did  n't  think  so  then.  Some  boys  were  always  in 
trouble  and  they'd  get  terrible  whippings.  There  was 
no  inducement  to  study — nothin'  to  interest  them,  and 
they  were  much  inclined  to  play  truant.  They'd  sneak 
around  and  go  fishing,  even  if  they  knew  they'd  be 
corrected  for  it.  'Tain't  so  now.  The  boys  want  to 
go  to  school,  they  have  so  much  fun  there.  But,  as 
the  feller  says,  'You  can  never  tell  much  about  a  boy.' 
One  of  the  most  ornery  boys  that  ever  lived  in  this 
town  is  now  captain  of  a  big  ship  that  makes  voyages 
out  to  Chiny." 

On  another  day,  in  my  quest  for  information,  I  spoke 
with  a  woman  who  was  feeding  some  chickens  that  were 
in  a  coop  near  the  street  fence.  She  was  proud  of  her 
chickens,  but  was  still  more  proud  of  the  garden  back 
of  the  house,  which  she  presently  invited  me  to  visit, 
so  she  could  show  me  all  the  varied  growing  things  that 
crowded  its  narrow  limits.  Her  remarks  ran  on  some- 
thing in  this  wise: 


The  pump  at  the  back  door 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  235 

"See  that  little  cherry  tree.  She's  loaded  full  and 
she  bears  every  year.  Next  beyond  is  a  dwarf  apple 
tree,  and  that  never  fails  to  have  fruit  on  it  either, 
though  we're  too  bleak  here  for  apples  to  do  first-rate. 
Most  of  what  we  raise  we  use  in  our  own  family,  but 
I'm  always  sellin'  a  little  somethin'  or  'nother.  Last 
spring  I  sold  enough  kale  and  mustard  greens  from  the 
garden  to  buy  a  barrel  of  flour.  I  scatter  the  seed 
around  in  the  fall,  and  it  keeps  coming  up  all  the  time. 
I'll  give  you  some  and  you  can  sow  it  in  your  garden. 

"We've  got  a  nice  soil  to  work  in  hereabouts.  You 
can't  hardly  find  a  stone  large  enough  to  throw  and 
scare  the  birds  away  in  this  part  of  Delaware.  My 
husband  does  the  heavy  garden  work.  That's  him 
hoeing  over  by  that  grapevine.  Here  's  a  bunch  of 
ribbon  grass,  and  it's  a  curious  thing  that  you  can't 
find  two  blades  striped  alike.  That's  a  mystery,  ain't 
it?  And  yet  it's  the  same  with  people.  As  many  as 
there  are  in  the  world  no  two  look  exactly  like  each 
other. 

"Next  to  the  ribbon  grass  is  an  old-time  lily.  It 
used  to  belong  to  my  great  aunt,  who  died  when  she 
was  in  her  eighties.  The  root  is  good  for  a  salve,  and 
people  come  to  me  from  way  back  of  Georgetown  for  it. 

"I'm  a  great  hand  for  herbs.  I  guess  I  inherit  my 
liking  for  'em  from  my  mother.  She  was  a  regular 
herb  doctor,  and  they  would  send  for  her  from  far  and 
near. 

"I  work  in  the  garden  just  about  all  the  time  in 


236    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

pleasant  weather,  even  if  I  neglect  things  that  ought 
to  be  done  in  the  house.  For  thirteen  years  I  had  dis- 
pepsia  and  was  troubled  with  heart  trembling.  My 
stomach  was  always  cold  and  I  was  so  weak  I  could  n't 
walk  across  the  floor  without  holding  on  to  a  chair  or 
table.  I  nearly  wore  out  our  carriage  going  out  riding. 
Somebody  had  to  help  me  in,  and  I  would  sit  with  a 
pillow  at  my  back,  and  yet  I  could  n't  bear  to  have  the 
horse  trot.  It  would  shake  the  wind  all  out  of  me.  One 
night  I  dreamed  I  saw  our  doctor  just  as  plain  as  I  see 
you  now.  He  stood  lookin'  at  me,  and  I  said,  'Why 
ain't  you  givin'  me  some  medicine?' 

"Go  out  and  feed  your  chickens,'  he  says,  and  went 
away. 

"Next  day  I  remembered  my  dream,  and  I  said  to 
myself:  'That  meant  something.  It  meant  for  me  to 
cure  myself  by  outdoor  exercise  and  air.' 

"I  begun  at  once,  and  now  I'm  a  well  woman.  I'm 
gettin'  so  stout  I  can't  wear  hardly  any  of  the  clothes 
I've  got,  and  I  can  eat  most  any  food — except  of  course 
something  like  boiled  cabbage  late  in  the  day.  No- 
body ought  to  eat  that  then. 

"I  was  raised  on  a  farm,  and  I  think  I'm  naturally 
active,  but  I  don't  work  the  way  my  mother  did.  She 
was  very  industrious,  and  though  the  family  was  large 
I  never  knew  her  to  have  a  servant  in  her  life.  There 
was  n't  an  idle  minute  about  her.  We'd  make  as  much 
as  sixty  dollars  some  seasons  knitting  in  the  long  even- 
ings after  the  farm  was  laid  by.  We  grew  sheep,  and 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  237 

mother  handled  the  wool  and  spun  it  into  yarn.  While 
I  was  still  very  young  I  used  to  get  my  little  straight- 
backed  chair  every  evening  and  place  myself  right  by 
her  to  pick  wool.  She  learned  me  to  knit  my  own 
stockings  when  I  was  eight  years  old." 

The  woman's  husband  had  now  joined  us,  and  he 
remarked:  "Things  were  much  like  that  in  all  the 
farm  families.  Where  I  lived  the  boys  as  well  as  the 
girls  learned  to  knit  and  darn  their  own  stockings. 
Everybody  had  homemade  clothing  that  the  women 
cut  out  and  sewed  by  hand.  The  cloth  for  the  men's 
clothes  was  what  was  called  fustian,  and  for  the  wo- 
men's clothes  it  was  linsey-woolsey.  I  would  get  one 
suit  a  year  just  before  Christmas,  and  it  did  n't  matter 
how  it  fitted  if  'twas  so  I  could  get  it  on.  There  was 
no  such  thing  as  a  vest  for  young  boys — 'just  pants  and 
a  jacket.  Neither  did  we  have  an  undershirt  or  drawers. 
I  never  wore  any  till  I  was  grown  up,  and  I  did  n't 
wear  stockings  except  in  winter.  The  boys  in  a  family 
that  lived  right  along  side  of  us  did  n't  wear  either 
shoes  or  stockings  the  year  through.  Their  feet  would 
turn  purple  in  winter  and  sometimes  crack  between 
the  toes  and  bleed,  but  they  claimed  they  did  n't 
suffer  from  the  cold  any  more  than  if  they'd  worn  shoes. 

"Every  fall  the  shoemaker  came  to  our  house  to 
make  us  a  pair  of  boots  or  shoes  all  around.  I  used  to 
have  little  low  shoes  with  just  four  eyelets  in  'em  for 
lacing,  and  they  were  lined  with  red  sheepskin.  The 
soles  were  pegged.  The  shoemaker  would  punch  holes 


238    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

with  his  awl  and  drive  in  two  rows  of  pegs  right  around 
the  edge.  We  never  had  a  box  of  blacking,  but  we'd 
turn  the  stove  lid  over  and  rub  on  soot  from  it  with  a 
brush.  That  made  our  shoes  black,  or  at  least  they 
was  n't  white,  you  know.  I  would  carry  'em  under 
my  arm  on  the  way  to  Sunday-school  to  save  'em. 
Just  before  I  got  to  the  church  I'd  sit  down  in  some 
pines  that  grew  by  the  roadside  and  put  the  shoes  on. 
I  never  wore  'em  in  the  spring  longer  than  I  could  help. 
The  country  then  was  all  in  timber  and  more  protected 
than  now,  and  as  early  as  March  we'd  strip  off  our 
shoes  and  go  for  the  woods  and  crawl  in  the  hog  beds 
in  the  pine  shats.  It  was  nice,  in  a  sunny  place  where 
the  wind  did  n't  hit.  We  preferred  to  go  barefoot  even  if 
we  did  have  stone  bruises  and  what  they  call  cowitch." 

"The  way  my  father  had  me  wear  my  shoes,"  the 
wife  said,  "was  to  change  them  to  the  other  foot  each 
day  so  as  to  keep  'em  from  getting'  lopsided.  They 
were  rights  and  lefts  a  little  bit,  but  you  would  n't 
hardly  know  it. 

"Fashions  did  n't  change  much,  and  all  of  us,  rich 
and  poor,  wore  about  the  same  kind  of  clothes.  The 
women  wore  sunbunnets  and  aprons  to  church.  I've  did 
it.  I  used  to  think  our  linsey-woolsey  dresses  were  beau- 
tiful, but  when  I  was  seventeen  I  wore  mine  to  church 
in  town,  and  they  made  fun  of  it  because  it  was 
sheep's  wool.  So  I  would  n't  wear  linsey-woolsey  again. 

"We  used  to  walk  to  church  in  the  morning,  but  it 
was  too  much  to  walk  again  in  the  evening,  and  we'd 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  239 

put  the  oxen  to  the  cart  and  ride,  and  perhaps  take 
along  some  of  the  neighbors." 

"I  was  a  bound  boy,"  the  man  resumed,  "but  I  was 
treated  same  as  the  man's  own  children  except  that  I 
did  n't  get  much  schoolin'.  I  stayed  at  home  and 
worked  when  the  weather  was  fit,  and  at  the  time  I 
went  into  the  army  I  could  n't  read  or  write.  The 
man  I  worked  for  was  kind  o'  rich,  for  he  not  only  had 
a  pair  of  oxen  but  he  kept  a  horse.  Oh,  laws,  yes! 
anybody  that  owned  a  horse  was  somebody.  But  most 
of  the  people  around  here  was  poor,  and  all  they  cared  for 
was  a  little  something  to  wear  and  to  eat.  Ther  build- 
ings were  very  common.  Cattle  sheds,  for  instance, 
were  roofed  with  brush  on  which  pine  shats  were  thrown. 
The  shats  would  shed  rain  if  there  was  enough  of  'em,  but 
they'd  rot  in  two  or  three  years,  and  then  we  had  to  take 
the  oxen  and  haul  more.  The  sheep  and  cattle  in  them 
days  stayed  outdoors  mostly,  and  after  a  heavy  snow 
we'd  have  to  dig  'em  out  from  where  they'd  crowded 
up  to  the  hayrack  or  some  other  slight  shelter." 

"At  our  place,"  the  wife  remarked,  "we  used  to 
thresh  our  wheat  in  the  cattle  pound,  or  barnyard  as 
some  would  say  now.  We'd  rake  everything  off  as 
clean  as  we  could  and  then  lay  the  wheat  bundles  in  a 
circle,  heads  in.  Oxen  that  the  men  would  drive  were 
used  for  treading  out  the  grain,  or  perhaps  two  or  three 
horsebackers  went  around  on  it.  I've  rode  one  of  the 
horses  threshing  wheat  a  many  a  time.  In  the  center 
stood  some  of  the  men  with  turning-forks  keeping  the 


240    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

wheat  bundles  stirred  up.  After  a  while  they'd  take 
the  stock  all  off  and  upend  the  bundles  and  turn  'em 
right  over.  Then  there  was  more  treading.  It  was  no 
long  job.  We  did  n't  raise  much.  Why,  my  dear  man, 
if  we  had  ten  bushels  we  thought  we  had  a  big  crop. 
There's  more  raised  now  on  one  farm  than  was  grown 
then  in  the  whole  county.  Any  bread  made  of  flour 
we  called  cake,  but  we  had  plenty  of  cornbread.  There 
were  no  stoves  then  with  us,  and  we  placed  the  corn- 
bread  on  a  board  and  baked  it  on  the  hearth  in  front 
of  the  fire. 

"If  my  father  went  visiting  after  church,  or  most  any 
time,  the  people  he  visited  would  probably  send  the 
children  a  little  something  to  eat,  and  often,  if  he  come 
home  and  did  n't  say  nothing  about  what  he'd  brought, 
we'd  wait  till  he  took  his  coat  off  and  search  his  pockets. 
Sometimes  he'd  carry  around  a  biscuit  two  or  three 
days  before  we  got  hold  of  it.  By  then  it  was  right 
dirty  and  black,  and  so  hard  we  could  n't  break  it.  But 
that  made  no  difference.  We'd  take  a  hatchet,  and 
chop  it  up,  and  it  tasted  good  to  us." 

After  I  parted  from  these  friends  I  wandered  out 
into  the  farming  region  that  lies  back  of  the  town.  Its 
fertility  was  very  evident,  and  its  flourishing  crops  were 
a  joy  to  behold.  Often  there  were  hedgerows  between 
fields  or  along  the  roadsides.  These  were  decidedly  more 
pleasing  to  the  eyes  than  fences,  but  a  man  whom  I 
accosted  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  piazza,  and  who 
whittled  the  piazza,  floor  very  industriously  while  we 


o 

•  r-» 


A  Glimpse  of  Delaware  241 

talked,  said:  "They  ain't  puttin'  in  no  new  hedges, 
and  they're  tearin'  up  the  old.  People  are  kickin' 
against  'em  on  account  of  the  snow.  We  have  a  good 
bit  of  snow  here  some  years,  and  the  hedges  ketch  the 
drifts.  I've  walked  from  here  clean  in  town  on  snow 
that  blew  in  and  filled  the  roadway  up  even  with  the 
tops  of  the  hedges  that  were  on  both  sides.  We  had 
to  cut  a  road  through  for  the  teams  same  as  a  canal. 

"Another  thing  we  got  against  the  hedges  is  that 
they're  wasteful.  Take  that  field  yander — the  wheat 
next  to  the  hedge  is  mighty  slim.  It's  like  havin'  a 
field  long  side  of  the  woods — the  hedge  roots  take  all 
the  substance  and  moisture  out  of  the  ground.  You 
lose  more  or  less  on  a  strip  ten  or  twelve  feet  wide." 

But  I  found  one  advantage  in  the  hedges — they 
protected  the  wild  strawberries,  and  the  berries  were 
so  abundant  and  delicious  that  I  lingered  picking  and 
eating  them  a  long  time,  and  was  tempted  to  continue 
in  Delaware  till  the  strawberry  season  was  past. 

NOTES. — An  automobile  route  goes  down  through  Delaware 
from  Wilmington  to  Cape  Charles,  a  distance  of  212  miles.  The 
roads  are  macadam  and  dirt.  Wilmington,  the  largest  city  in  the 
state,  has  extensive  manufactories  and  considerable  historic  inter- 
est. About  13  miles  to  the  northwest  Washington  was  defeated  by 
the  British  in  September,  1777,  in  the  Battle  of  the  Brandywine. 

Dover,  47  miles  south,  the  capital  of  the  state,  was  founded  in 
1700  by  William  Penn.  Between  it  and  Felton,  12  miles  farther  on, 
are  immense  apple  orchards. 

Old  Lewes  and  some  of  the  other  towns  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dela- 
ware have  a  good  deal  of  attraction  as  vacation  resorts. 


XI 


ROUNDABOUT   THE    NATION  S    CAPITAL 

THE  District  of  Columbia  at  first  included  a  tract 
on  each  side  of  the  Potomac,  but  that  on  the 
southern  side  was  later  relinquished,  and  the 
present  District  has  an  area  of  sixty-nine  square  miles. 
It  has  been  the  seat  of  government  since  1800.  At  the 
end  of  the  first  decade  it  had  a  population  of  eight 
thousand  and  for  a  long  time  grew  very  slowly.  Even 
down  to  1870  the  city  was  in  a  very  backward  condi- 
tion, but  since  then  improvement  has  been  rapid,  till 
now  it  is  one  of  the  most  comfortable  and  beautiful  in 
the  world.  Both  in  itself  and  in  its  surroundings  it  is 
superlatively  interesting.  To  be  sure  it  is  a  made-to- 
order  place  that  was  carefully  and  formally  planned 
at  the  very  start,  and  this  has  inevitably  resulted  in  its 
losing  some  of  the  piquancy  that  a  more  harum-scarum 
growth  would  have  given  it.  Moreover,  it  still  has  a 
little  of  the  aspect  of  a  boy  in  clothes  purposely  made 
too  large  for  him  in  order  to  provide  for  his  prospective 
increase  in  stature — that  is,  the  city  as  a  whole  does  not 
yet  match  up  to  its  splendid  public  buildings,  and  the 
amplitude  of  its  parks,  and  the  breadth  of  its  avenues. 
But  its  rawness  in  this  respect  is  now  only  incidentally 
apparent,  though  formerly  it  was  a  perfect  scarecrow 


Roundabout  the  Nation's  Capital  243 

and  was  called  the  "City  of  Magnificent  Distances," 
its  framework  seemed  so  unnecessarily  large  for  any 
prospective  growth.  The  phrase  continues  in  use  but 
gradually  has  come  to  be  applied  in  a  praiseworthy 
sense  as  indicating  the  width  of  the  city  streets  and  the 
spaciousness  of  the  parks  and  squares. 

The  prosperity  of  the  city  depends  on  the  fact  that 
here  are  the  government  offices  and  the  meeting-place 
of  Congress.  There  are  probably  forty  thousand  army 
and  navy  officers  and  civil  servants  in  Washington,  and 
these  with  their  families  make  a  large  proportion  of 
the  population. 

Of  the  government  buildings  the  Capitol  is  very 
fittingly  the  most  imposing  in  size.  It  is  no  less  impres- 
sive in  its  grace  of  design  and  situation,  and  it  is  set 
amid  grounds  whose  extent  and  arrangement  add  much 
to  its  architectural  effect.  With  the  crowning  glory 
of  its  great  dome  it  is  surpassingly  beautiful,  no  matter 
whence  you  see  it.  The  main  building  with  its  original 
low-crowned  dome  was  completed  in  1827,  and  the 
wings  and  the  present  dome  about  forty  years  later. 
It  covers  three  and  a  half  acres  and  is  on  a  hill  ninety 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  Potomac. 

On  this  same  height  is  the  Library  of  Congress,  a 
building  capable  of  accommodating  four  or  five  million 
volumes,  and  of  special  interest  to  the  sightseer  be- 
cause of  its  sumptuous  adornments  of  painting,  sculp- 
ture, colored  marbles,  and  gilding.  These  are  often 
not  all  they  might  be  in  conception,  execution,  or 


244    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

arrangement,  but  the  effect  as  a  whole  is  decidedly 
imposing. 

The  White  House,  a  trifle  over  a  mile  distant  down 
the  straight,  wide  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  is  as  satisfying 
as  the  Capitol  in  its  stately  simplicity,  and  its  generous 
grounds,  seventy-five  acres  in  extent.  This  was  the 
first  public  building  erected  at  the  new  seat  of  govern- 
ment. George  Washington  himself  selected  the  site. 
He  laid  the  cornerstone  in  1792  and  lived  to  see  the 
building  completed.  During  Madison's  administration 
it  was  burned  by  marauding  British  soldiers,  but  the 
stone  walls  remained  standing,  and  when  it  was  restored 
the  stone  was  painted  white  to  obliterate  the  marks 
of  the  fire.  It  has  commonly  been  known  as~the  White 
House  ever  since. 

Near  by  is  the  treasury  building,  as  if  under  the 
special  guardianship  of  the  president,  with  the  expecta- 
tion that  he  would  protect  the  garnered  wealth  of  the 
people  from  the  spendthrift  inroads  of  Congress  which 
meets  in  the  Capitol. 

The  vast  structures  necessary  for  carrying  on  the 
nation's  business  abound  on  every  hand,  but,  aside 
from  the  Capitol  and  the  White  House,  the  most 
widely-famed  architectural  feature  of  the  city  is  the 
Washington  Monument.  I  fancy  its  fame  is  chiefly 
due  to  its  tremendous  height,  for  it  is  an  absolutely 
unornamented,  tapering  marble  shaft,  more  severely 
plain  than  a  factory  chimney.  The  obelisk  was  begun 
in  1848,  but  work  on  it  was  presently  abandoned  and 


Roundabout  the  Nation's  Capital  245 

was  not  resumed  until  1877.  It  was  finished  in  1884. 
From  the  floor  to  the  tip  it  soars  up  555  feet,  and  until 
certain  recent  skyscrapers  in  New  York  were  erected  it 
was  the  highest  work  of  masonry  in  the  world.  It  can 
be  ascended  either  by  a  fatiguing  climb  of  its  nine  hun- 
dred steps  or  by  elevator.  The  walls  are  fifteen  feet 
thick  at  the  entrance,  but  gradually  thin  to  eighteen 
inches  at  the  top.  It  cost  over  a  million  dollars.  The 
immensity  of  the  monument  is  only  fully  appreciated 
when  one  stands  right  at  its  base,  but  it  is  seen  to  best 
advantage  from  an  island  park  that  borders  the  adja- 
cent Potomac. 

This  park  is  a  favorite  resort  of  fisherman.  I  have 
seen  them  there  before  five  o'clock  on  a  summer  morn- 
ing, and  only  a  storm,  or  darkness  when  the  day  comes 
to  an  end,  sends  them  home.  Carp  seemed  to  be  the 
fish  most  commonly  caught,  and  some  of  these  that  the 
anglers  secured  were  surprisingly  big  fellows. 

Across  the  river  on  the  Virginia  hills,  within  sight  of 
the  city,  is  the  Arlington  National  Cemetery,  and  any 
one  with  a  belligerent  inclination  to  settle  disputes 
between  countries,  or  between  masses  of  people  in  the 
same  country,  by  resorting  to  war  would  do  well  to 
visit  this  spot  where  most  of  the  graves  are  those  of  the 
silent  hosts  who  died  in  the  war  for  the  Union.  The 
headstones  stretch  away  in  seemingly  endless  lines,  for 
here  lie  buried  sixteen  thousand  men,  and  this  field  of 
the  dead  is  only  one  of  many  that  the  Civil  War  filled 
with  the  soldiers  who  succumbed  to  either  bullets  or 


246    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

disease.  Among  the  various  monuments  probably  the 
most  impressive  is  that  inscribed  to  the  Unknown  Dead. 
The  letters  chisled  on  the  granite  inform  the  onlookers 
that  "Beneath  this  stone  repose  the  bones  of  two 
thousand  one  hundred  and  eleven  unknown  soldiers 
gathered  after  the  war  from  the  fields  of  Bull  Run  and 
the  route  to  the  Rappahannock."  .  In  the  southern 
part  of  the  cemetery  are  buried  the  sailors  who  lost 
their  lives  at  Havana  in  the  blowing  up  of  the  Maine. 

Within  the  limits  of  the  cemetery,  on  the  brow  of  the 
hill  that  slopes  away  to  the  Potomac,  a  half  mile  dis- 
tant, is  the  fine  old  mansion  that  was  the  home  of 
Robert  E.  Lee  when  the  Civil  War  began. 

But  the  most  interesting  home  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Capitol  is  that  of  George  Washington  at  Mount  Vernon, 
sixteen  miles  to  the  south.  It  is  easily  accessible  by 
trolley.  The  intervening  country  is  rather  common- 
place, except  that  half  way  you  pass  through  quaint 
old  Alexandria  with  its  cobblestone  streets  and  numer- 
ous ancient  buildings. 

Mount  Vernon  itself  is  a  paradise.  It  suggests  the 
home  of  an  English  country  gentleman  of  large  estate 
and  refined  tastes.  The  house  is  large,  serene,  dignified, 
and  looks  down  from  a  steep,  terraced  hill  on  the 
lordly  Potomac.  Everything  is  on  a  generous  scale — 
there  is  unstinted  lawn  about  the  dwelling,  and  many 
venerable  trees,  and  there  is  a  big  garden  abounding 
in  ornamental  hedgerows  and  flowers  in  their  season. 

The  interior  of  the  house  is  less  delightful  than  the 


: 

-••• 


Roundabout  the  Nation's  Capital  247 

exterior;  for  it  is  a  formal  showplace  in  which  the 
imagination  finds  it  difficult  to  restore  the  animation  of 
life.  Nevertheless,  as  a  museum  of  articles  connected 
with  the  life  of  the  Father  of  his  Country,  and  illustra- 
tive of  well-to-do  household  appointments  of  the 
colonial  period,  it  is  extremely  valuable. 

The  house  was  built  in  1743  by  Washington's  half- 
brother,  Lawrence.  When  you  observe  it  close  at  hand 
you  become  aware  that  its  wooden  sides  are  dominoed 
to  imitate  stone,  a  pretense  that  one  can  not  help  re- 
gretting in  a  building  that  otherwise  is  so  admirable. 
Lawrence  died,  and  Washington  at  length  inherited 
the  property.  He  came  here  to  live  and  carry  on  the 
farm  soon  after  his  marriage  in  1759.  During  the 
Revolution  and  his  presidency  of  the  new  republic 
Mount  Vernon  saw  little  of  him,  but  on  his  retirement 
from  public  office  he  came  back  to  his  farm,  and  it  was 
in  the  beautiful  old  mansion  beside  the  Potomac  that 
he  died  in  1799,  and  his  remains  repose  in  a  tomb  in  a 
quiet  nook  of  the  grounds. 

In  this  desultory  account  of  the  Capitol  and  its 
vicinity  I  only  attempt  to  deal  with  a  few  salient  fea- 
tures, but  I  would  include  among  these,  because  of  its 
picturesqueness,  a  canal  that  comes  into  the  city  from 
the  west,  high  up  on  the  north  bank  of  the  Potomac, 
and  descends  to  the  river  by  a  series  of  locks.  Just 
above  the  locks  is  a  place  where  the  boats  tie  up  to 
await  their  turn  for  unloading.  Sometimes  a  boat  will 
be  there  a  week  or  ten  days  before  it  can  proceed. 


248    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

Usually  a  sail-cloth  awning  is  put  up  to  protect  the 
cabin  from  the  hot  sunshine,  and  a  plank  is  adjusted 
to  serve  for  passing  to  and  from  the  shore.  The  mules 
on  the  bank  are  tied  to  feed  boxes  built  there  for  their 
accommodation.  It  is  a  sort  of  amphibian  gypsy  en- 
campment. Coal  is  the  ordinary  cargo,  and  the  boats 
commonly  go  back  light  to  the  mines  in  the  Cumber- 
land Mountains. 

Another  feature  of  the  Washington  vicinity  that 
appealed  strongly  to  me  was  the  Great  Falls  of  the 
Potomac,  fifteen  miles  by  electric  line  from  the  city. 
The  route  is  in  the  woods  much  of  the  way,  and  you 
see  little  of  the  river,  and  nothing  of  the  falls  until  you 
reach  your  destination.  Then  you  pass  through  a 
pleasure  resort  grove,  and  there  are  the  falls  before  you. 
The  pavilions  and  other  buildings  of  the  amusement 
park  are  back  out  of  sight  among  the  trees,  and  the 
artificial  music  of  the  merry-go-round  cannot  be  heard, 
so  much  more  powerful  is  nature's  music  of  the  roaring 
waters.  The  river  channel  is  a  chaos  of  jagged  ledges 
amid  which  the  stream  has  worn  various  tortuous 
channels,  and  the  water  surges  down  through  the  rocks 
in  a  smother  of  white  waves,  and  then  makes  a  sudden 
leap  to  a  lower  level.  In  floods  the  rocks  are  buried 
from  sight,  and  the  river  tears  along  in  a  wild  torrent 
that  fills  the  narrow  chasm  below  and  obliterates  the 
falls  entirely.  Above  the  rapids  is  a  dam,  but  it  is  low 
and  unobtrusive,  and  one  sees  the  falls  almost  as  much 
in  a  state  of  nature  as  when  the  aborigines  possessed 


Roundabout  the  Nation's  Capital  249 

the  country.  Indeed,  I  met  one  enthusiastic  onlooker 
who  declared  that  because  of  its  unspoiled  scenic 
setting  the  Potomac  Falls  was  superior  to  Niagara. 

Besides  the  pleasure-seekers  from  Washington,  who 
come  to  listen  to  the  melody  of  the  waters  and  watch 
their  mad  struggle  down  the  rocky  channel,  there  were 
quite  a  number  of  local  farmers,  who  had  resorted 
thither  to  fish  for  shad  in  the  swift  rush  of  the  stream 
just  below  the  falls.  Here  they  have  come  ever  since 
the  region  was  settled,  and  no  doubt  it  was  a  fishing- 
place  of  the  Indians  for  untold  years  before  that.  The 
rocks  in  the  steep  ravines  where  the  fishermen  descend 
to  the  stream  are  worn  smooth  with  the  footsteps  of 
those  who  have  toiled  up  and  down,  and  bear  mute 
testimony  to  the  attraction  of  the  spot.  You  find  the 
fishers  busy  on  both  sides  of  the  river.  They  are 
armed  with  long-handled  scoopnets,  and  dip  and  dip 
from  the  several  points  of  vantage,  making  a  slow  sweep 
down  stream.  The  rocks  do  not  furnish  many  foot- 
holds suitable  for  the  task,  and  at  each  dipping-place 
there  is  pretty  sure  to  be  a  group  of  fishermen  waiting 
their  turn.  A  few  townsmen  also  come  to  fish,  but 
they  use  pole  and  line,  and  instead  of  shad  they  get 
occasional  cat  fish  and  sun  fish. 

I  clambered  down  a  gulley  and  joined  one  of  the 
scoopnet  squads.  In  the  intervals  between  fishing 
they  retired  from  the  water's  edge  and  sat  in  a  shadowed 
spot  on  the  rocks  talking,  chewing  tobacco,  and  spitting. 
Rubbish  and  fishscales  were  scattered  about,  and  it 


250    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

was  no  more  savory  in  its  odors  than  are  most  fishing- 
places. 

One  of  the  fishermen  was  a  thin,  spectacled  old  man, 
very  quaintly  rustic,  with  long  white  hair  hanging  in 
ringlets  about  his  shoulders.  This  patriarch  was  the 
acknowledged  scoopnet  champion.  To  quote  one  of 
his  companions — "He  knows  just  how  to  do  it,  and 
he's  mo'  likely  to  get  shad  than  any  of  us.  Uncle  Jim 
was  an  old  fisherman  when  I  was  a  boy,  forty  odd  years 
ago,  and  he's  caught  mo'  shad  in  this  river  than  all  the 
rest  of  the  crowd  here  put  together.  Oh,  my,  yes!  yes 
indeed!  He  never  does  anything  else  but  fish  in  the 
fishin'  season,  and  he  can  make  a  livin'  and  a  half  at  it. 
He'll  be  here  every  day  for  the  next  month. 

"This  is  as  far  as  the  shad  go  up  the  river.  They 
can't  get  over  the  falls.  It's  heavy  exercise  handling  a 
scoopnet,  but  we  don't  keep  at  it  continuous.  Every 
man  follers  around  and  takes  his  turn.  He  dips  a 
hundred  dips,  which  takes  about  fifteen  minutes.  I 
believe  Uncle  Jim  was  the  starter  of  that  plan  in  his 
young  days.  If  we  get  suspicious  that  a  feller  is  not 
stopping  when  he  ought  to  stop,  some  one  sits  back  and 
counts  to  make  sure  whether  he's  cheating  or  not.  I 
see  a  big  fight  about  that  one  day  over  where  them  men 
are  fishin'  on  the  rocks  opposite.  But  mostly  those 
who  scoop  for  shad  are  neighbors  who  live  right  around, 
and  they  are  all  honest. 

"Once  in  a  while  we  scoop  up  a  carp  here,  and  it's  a 
tolerable  good  fish  if  it's  cooked  right.  You  want  to 


At  the  fishing-place 


Roundabout  the  Nation's  Capital  251 

boil  it  with  a  little  vinegar  in  the  water.  Then  it  tastes 
first-rate,  but  it's  a  very  rich  fish,  and  while  it  does 
well  enough  for  a  mess  or  two  you  soon  get  sick  of  'em. 
Take  shad  though,  and  its  good  any  old  way.  The  only 
fault  you  can  find  is  that  it  has  a  whole  lot  of  bones, 
and  them  bones  are  stiff,  too. 

"Hurrah!  Uncle  Jim's  got  one." 

There  was  a  general  shout  of  congratulation  from  the 
group,  and  we  could  hear  the  faint  cheers  of  the  men 
across  the  river,  who  had  likewise  observed  Uncle 
Jim's  success.  A  man  in  our  group  scrambled  down 
and  took  the  flopping,  silvery  captive  from  the  meshes, 
and  Uncle  Jim,  after  one  exultant  smile,  stolidly  re- 
sumed his  wielding  of  the  scoopnet,  and  only  stopped 
when  he  had  finished  his  hundred  dips.  Then  he  gave 
way  to  the  next  man  and  came  up  the  rocks,  got  out 
his  knife,  and  dressed  the  shad. 

"The  scales  are  right  loose  when  the  fish  is  first  taken 
from  the  water,"  he  explained,  but  they  get  tight  if 
you  let  the  fish  dry.  Shad  are  a  pretty  fish,  ain't  they, 
they  look  so  nice  and  white?  When  I  get  enough 
of  'em  to  make  it  worth  while,  I  take  out  the  back- 
bone and  salt  'em  up  so  they'll  keep  till  they're 
wanted.  They're  a  whole  lot  better  that  way  than 
fresh.  But  we  don't  scoop  many  here  now.  We 
used  to  get  a  thousand  to  one  that  we  ketch  late 
years. 

"Hello,  Joe!  caught  any?" 

This  greeting  was  to  a  new  arrival. 


252    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"No,"  Joe  responded,  "I  been  down  to  the  riffle. 
Two  was  caught  there,  but  I  did  n't  get  either  of  'em." 

"The  water's  too  muddy,"  Uncle  Jim  commented. 

"It  was  cl'ar  early  in  the  week,  but  every  rain 
muddies  it." 

I  asked  him  if  he  could  see  the  shad  before  he  scooped 
them  when  the  water  was  clear. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "muddy  or  not,  we  never  can  see 
down  into  the  water  enough  to  have  any  idee  whether 
we're  goin'  to  get  a  fish  till  the  net  brings  it  to  the 
surface." 

The  day  was  waning,  and  I  at  length  climbed  back 
up  the  rocks,  marvelling  that  so  primitive  a  scene  as 
is  presented  at  the  Great  Falls  of  the  Potomac  in  early 
summer  should  be  found  within  an  hour's  trolley 
journey  of  the  big  modern  city  of  Washington,  the 
nation's  capital. 

NOTES. — Climatically  Washington  is  most  delightful  in  May  or 
October.  If  possible,  be  there  when  Congress  is  in  session  and  see 
the  Senate  and  the  House  of  Representatives  at  work. 

Some  of  the  features  of  the  city  not  mentioned  in  the  body  of  this 
chapter,  yet  which  have  exceptional  attraction,  are  the  Botanic 
Gardens;  National  Museum;  Smithsonian  Institute;  the  Bureau 
of  Engraving  and  Printing,  where  visitors  can  see  paper  money, 
bonds,  and  stamps  in  the  process  of  manufacture;  the  Corcoran 
Gallery  of  Art;  Ford's  Theatre  on  loth  Street,  where  President 
Lincoln  was  shot,  and  the  house  opposite  to  which  he  was  carried 
to  die,  and  which  contains  a  collection  of  Lincoln  relics;  and  the 
Union  Railway  Station,  which  in  size  and  architectural  charm  is  a 
fitting  companion  to  the  best  of  the  government  buildings. 


Roundabout  the  Nation's  Capital  253 

Automobile  routes  radiate  in  all  directions,  but  many  of  the  roads 
are  very  poor.  The  road  to  Mt.  Vernon,  for  instance,  is  so  bad  that 
it  is  well  to  make  the  trip  by  trolley,  or,  better  still,  by  boat.  One 
can,  however,  motor  to  Alexandria,  10  miles,  without  great  discom- 
fort, though  the  dirt  road  is  very  rough.  At  Alexandria,  which  at 
one  time  aspired  to  be  the  nation's  capitol,  the  traveller  should 
visit  the  wharves  and  the  marketplace,  see  the  Marshall  House 
where  Colonel  Ellsworth,  the  first  man  to  die  in  the  Civil  War,  was 
killed,  and  go  into  Christ  Church  where  Washington  and  General 
Robert  E.  Lee  used  to  worship. 

There  is  a  good  macadam  road  to  Great  Falls,  15  miles.  Half 
way  it  crosses  Cabin  John  Creek  by  a  bridge  that  has  a  span  of  220 
feet  and,  with  one  exception,  is  the  longest  stone  arch  bridge  in  the 
world.  It  was  built  to  carry  the  Washington  Acqueduct.  Jefferson 
Davis  was  Secretary  of  War  at  that  time,  and  his  name  was  cut 
into  one  of  the  stones.  When  he  became  president  of  the  Con- 
federacy his  name  was  chiseled  off,  but  many  years  afterward  it 
was  restored  by  order  of  President  Roosevelt.  The  water  supply  of 
Washington  comes  from  above  the  Falls. 


XII 


MARYLAND    DAYS 

I  WAS  in  that  part  of  Maryland  which  Whittier 
describes  in  his  "Barbara  Frietchie" — a  region  of 
"meadows  rich  with  corn,"  of  "green-walled  hills," 
and  of  orchards  "fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord." 
Nevertheless,  when  I  rambled  out  from  one  of  the 
larger  places  into  this  bounteous  farm  region,  I  felt  no 
especial  disposition  to  linger,  but  went  on  and  on  until 
I  came  to  where  the  billowing  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 
began  to  merge  into  woodland,  with  a  sturdy  mountain 
ridge  rising  in  the  near  distance.  Here  was  a  quaint, 
scattered,  old-fashioned  village,  Smoketown  by  name, 
and  I  fell  in  love  with  it  at  first  sight.  Many  of  the 
houses  were  of  logs,  and  certain  of  the  rickety  sheds 
and  barns  were  thatched  with  rye  straw.  The  public 
buildings  included  two  plain,  spireless  churches,  a 
schoolhouse,  and  a  store. 

I  had  loitered  along  through  the  village  to  its  farther 
borders  when  a  dash  of  rain  made  me  hasten  to  seek 
shelter  in  an  adjacent  log  house.  A  sunbonnetted 
woman  welcomed  me  into  the  kitchen  and  gave  me  a 
chair  which  I  took  care  to  place  near  the  open  door,  for 
the  odors  of  the  apartment  were  rather  dubious.  There 
was  one  other  room  on  the  ground  floor,  and  some  sort 


Maryland  Days  255 

of  a  low,  cramped  sleeping-place  over  head.  Out  in 
the  yard  were  two  small  children.  The  increasing  rain 
had  put  a  stop  to  their  play  and  made  them  want  to 
come  in,  but  they  regarded  me  as  an  ogre  in  their  path 
and  stood  looking  from  a  safe  distance.  Nor  would 
they  come  in  when  their  mother  ordered  them  to  do  so, 
and  she  had  to  go  out  and  fetch  them  one  at  a  time. 

The  storm  soon  became  quite  fierce,  rain  fell  in  tor- 
rents, and  there  was  an  ominous  gloom  brightened 
momentarily  by  flashes  of  lightening,  and  the  thunder 
boomed  and  muttered,  while  through  it  all  the  numer- 
ous flies  in  the  kitchen  buzzed  monotonously.  The 
furnishings  of  the  room  were  meagre  and  the  walls 
unpapered.  A  board  partition  separated  it  from  the 
next  room.  There  were  three  carpet-rag  rugs  on  the 
floor.  "I  hooked  them  when  I  was  at  home  before  I 
was  married,"  said  the  woman,  by  which  she  did  not 
mean  that  she  had  stolen  them,  but  referred  to  the 
process  of  making. 

On  the  walls  hung  a  lantern,  a  broken  mirror,  an 
advertising  calendar,  and  two  patent  medicine  al- 
manacs. The  older  child  climbed  on  the  table  and  got 
the  almanacs,  whereat  the  younger  protested  vehe- 
mently that  one  was  his. 

"Now  you  get  down  there,"  the  mother  ordered, 
and  she  restored  quiet  by  seating  herself  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  taking  in  her  lap  the  baby,  as  she  called  the 
smaller  urchin,  and  giving  him  his  almanac. 

"Solly  can't  have  your  book,"  she  said. 


256    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

I  could  look  out  of  the  door  and  see  a  long  line  of 
crocks  turned  bottom  upward  on  the  garden  palings, 
and  I  made  some  comment  on  them  that  elicited  the 
information  that  the  family  kept  their  "spreadin's  and 
such  things  in  'em." 

"And  what  are  spreadin's?"     I  inquired. 

She  glanced  toward  me,  surprised  at  my  ignorance, 
and  said:  "Why!  them  are  apple  butter  and  peach 
butter  and  jellies  and  preserves.  Yes,  sir,  we  spread 
'em  on  our  bread,  but  we  use  cow's  butter,  too,  usually. 
Some  of  'em  we  put  in  glasses,  but  if  you  want  to  make 
right  smart,  glasses  cost  too  much.  The  crocks  hold  a 
gallon.  Do  you  make  apple-butter  where  you  live? 
No?  What  do  you  do  with  your  specked  apples  then? 

"We  raise  lots  of  peaches.  My!  we  had  an  awful 
crop  last  year  and  cleared  eleven  hundred  dollars,  but 
we  had  to  give  half  of  that  to  the  man  who  owns  the 
land.  Fruit  and  berries  are  the  main  crops  here  on  the 
mountain.  You'll  find  very  little  wheat,  and  we  only 
grow  enough  corn  to  fatten  our  hogs  in  the  fall.  Our 
peach  trees  got  quite  a  setback  last  winter.  It  was  so 
everlastingly  cold  the  bark  was  bursted  off  of  'em,  and 
a  good  many  was  killed  dead. 

"Land  is  sellin'  terrible  dear  around  here.  The  man 
who  lives  jus'  down  the  road  from  us  asks  three  thous- 
and dollars  for  that  place  of  hisn,  and  he'll  get  what  he 
asks  one  of  these  times,  too.  Somebody  will  come  along 
and  buy  it.  There's  forty  acres,  but  it's  growed  up  bad 
to  briars  and  bushes,  and  the  buyer'll  have  to  clear  off 


Maryland  Days  257 

a  mess  of  rocks  and  blast  out  stumps  or  plough  around 
'em.  The  house  is  a  little  old  log  house  like  this  one, 
and  the  stable  is  ready  to  fall  down  any  time — 'tain't 
no  good. 

"Mrs.  Cromer  sold  her  place  the  other  day.  She's  a 
widow  woman.  Her  man  died  long  ago.  There  was 
only  a  small  house,  and  not  more  than  an  acre  of  land, 
and  you  could  n't  farm  all  of  that  it  was  so  wet,  and 
yet  she  got  nine  hundred  dollars.  A  man  who  cuts 
tombstones  bought  it.  He  said  rents  were  so  high  in 
the  town  he  could  live  cheaper  out  here,  and,  besides, 
his  children  would  have  a  chance  to  earn  something 
pickin'  berries. 

"When  the  black  raspberries  are  ripenin'  fastest  we 
pick  fifteen  or  twenty  crates  every  other  day,  and  they 
raise  lots  of  'em  on  the  mountain  farms  all  along.  We 
have  to  board  our  hired  pickers,  and  some  keep  'em 
over  night  yet.  Often  we  get  men  from  the  railroad. 
They  could  earn  two  and  a  half  and  three  dollars  a  day 
harvesting  wheat,  but  they'd  sooner  pick  berries.  We 
have  to  pay  the  pickers  a  cent  and  a  half  a  basket  and 
furnish  their  dinner.  It's  kind  o'  hard  farmin'  when 
help  is  so  dear.  You  can't  get  hands  any  more  at  less'n 
a  dollar  a  day.  Most  men  would  sooner  work  in  a  shop. 
I  have  to  get  three  breakfasts  when  we  have  hired  help. 
The  regular  time  for  breakfast  is  five  o'clock,  but  we 
are  all  done  with  ourn  and  ready  to  go  to  the  field  before 
the  hands  come  for  theirn.  After  they  finish  I  have  to 
get  breakfast  for  the  children.  We  have  dinner  at 


258    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

half-past  eleven,  and  supper  at  half-past  four.  It's 
very  seldom  that  the  big  ones  eat  again  until  the  next 
morning,  but  the  children  gen'rally  have  something 
just  before  they  go  to  bed. 

"The  men  you  hire  are  always  ready  to  quit  at  sun- 
down, but  a  man  that's  workin'  for  himself  has  to  put 
in  a  good  deal  longer  day  than  that,  specially  if  he's 
going  to  market.  There's  three  market  days  each  week, 
and  we  start  at  midnight,  or  by  one  or  two  o'clock. 
You  see  we  got  eight  miles  to  pull.  The  load  has  to  be 
made  ready,  and  a  man  don't  get  much  sleep  the  night 
before  a  market  day — only  an  hour  or  hour  and  a  half. 
It's  a  lonesome  road,  though  of  course  lots  of  wagons 
travel  it  on  the  way  to  market,  and  may  be  five  or  six 
will  string  along  together.  At  one  place  on  the  pike  a 
good  many  people  have  been  robbed.  It's  in  between 
two  hills  where  there  are  no  houses.  One  time  a  cousin 
of  mine — Charlie,  his  name  is — was  going  to  market, 
and  he  was  asleep  on  his  wagon.  It  was  Monday  night, 
and  on  the  night  before  he'd  been  to  see  a  girl;  so  he 
had  n't  had  much  sleep  for  quite  a  while.  His  horse 
stopped,  and  he  woke  up,  and  there  was  a  man  standin' 
right  at  the  horse's  head.  Charlie  said  it  looked  like 
the  man  had  gray  hair  and  a  gray  beard.  The  horse 
Charlie  drove  was  blind,  and  if  she  was  hit  with  the 
lines  she'd  jump,  and  away  she'd  go.  It  did  scare 
Charlie  like  sixty,  and  he  hit  the  horse  with  the  lines, 
and  off  she  went  like  a  streak,  and  you  betcher  he  got 
to  town  pretty  quick. 


In  the  garden 


Maryland  Days  259 

"The  earlier  you  hit  the  market  the  better  it  is  for 
you.  Seems  like  the  rich  people  and  all  try  to  get  down 
on  the  market  as  early  as  they  can  to  have  first  choice 
from  the  produce  before  it's  been  picked  over,  and  lots 
of  farmers  are  sold  out  by  seven  o'clock.  The  buyers 
are  there  as  soon  as  it  gets  good  daylight.  Everything 
is  fixed  so  the  market  is  the  best  place  to  buy  the  nicest 
produce.  Wholesale  men  dassen't  come  to  buy  there. 
It's  against  the  law;  and  the  farmers  are  not  allowed 
to  go  and  peddle  the  town  from  house  to  house  until 
after  ten. 

"An  inspector  is  there  every  market  day,  and  your 
butter  can't  be  under  weight — not  a  wee  bit — or  he 
takes  it. 

"  I  never  was  on  the  market  but  seven  or  eight  times. 
I  don't  like  it.  I  don't  like  the  way  people  does  you. 
Often  sales  are  slow,  and  you  have  to  stand  a  long  time, 
and  you  feel  sleepy  and  cranky  from  losin'  so  much  of 
your  rest  the  night  before.  It  may  be  that  one  day 
you'll  get  a  good  price  and  people  will  buy  straight 
along,  and  the  next  day  the  price  is  perhaps  most 
awful  low.  I've  sold  berries  for  five  cents  a  quart, 
a'ready.  The  customers  want  to  make  out  they're 
poor  and  ain't  got  money  to  pay  what  you  ask.  They 
tell  you  some  other  person  has  got  the  same  stuff 
cheaper  or  nicer.  Very  few  will  pay  your  price  until 
they  go  up  and  down  the  market  a  couple  of  times. 
They'll  stand  there  five  minutes  and  jew  you  and 
root  all  through  your  produce,  and  even  then  won't 


260    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

take  anything,  but  will  turn  up  their  snoot  and  go 
along. 

"Sometimes  they  want  you  to  trust  'em,  but  by 
Jiminy!  if  you  do  they  tell  one  another,  and  they  all 
want  to  be  trusted.  The  trouble  is  you  don't  get  your 
money  for  so  long.  We  trusted  a  couple  last  year — a 
storekeeper  and  a  woman — and  we've  run  after  'em 
and  run  after  'em.  We  did  get  a  dollar  out  of  the 
woman,  but  she  still  owes  another  dollar.  The  store- 
keeper died  in  the  spring  and  his  business  broke  up. 
We  tried  to  collect  from  his  widow,  but  she  said  she 
did  n't  pay  his  debts. 

"You  can  sell  most  anything  at  the  market — don't 
matter  what  it  is.  We  make  potato  chips  and  these 
hyar  what  you  call  crullers  to  sell,  and  we  bake  bread 
to  take,  and  we  sell  buttermilk.  Saturday  is  a  great 
day  for  selling  flowers.  We  carry  garden  flowers,  and 
we  pick  wild-flowers  and  make  bouquets.  When  the 
arbutus  is  in  blossom  we  can  sell  it  at  five  cents  a 
bunch  as  fast  as  we  can  hand  it  out. 

"One  man  here  makes  a  business  of  getting  things 
out  of  the  woods,  and  he's  at  the  market  with  'em  every 
Saturday.  He  don't  raise  none  of  the  stuff,  but  gathers 
it  all  up  wild.  His  name  is  Bud  Lester.  He  lives  in 
what  used  to  be  a  schoolhouse,  but  he  has  divided  it 
off  so  there's  three  rooms  in  it  now.  People  along  the 
mountain  don't  care  much  what  sort  of  a  house  they 
live  in  just  so  they  keep  dry  and  warm.  Bud  has  got 
ten  children  and  they're  pretty  near  all  small,  but  he 


Maryland  Days  261 

dresses  'em  real  nice  for  that  many.  Oh,  he  makes  a 
good  living.  He'll  dig  the  horse  radish  that  grows  wild  in 
the  little  meadows  and  grates  it  and  puts  it  up  in  baking 
powder  tumblers.  Sassafras  is  another  thing  he  gets. 
He  digs  that  there  in  the  woods.  Even  freezing  weather 
and  snow  on  the  ground  don't  stop  him.  He  digs  it 
anyhow.  Late  in  the  year  he  makes  laurel  wreaths, 
and  cuts  small  cedars  for  Christmas.  I've  seen  him 
sellin'  mistletoe,  but  I  don't  know  just  edzactly  where 
he  gets  it  at.  I  saw  him  come  down  with  a  bagful  of 
fern  last  week.  It  don't  take  a  very  large  bunch  for 
five  cents.  He  digs  'em  up  root  and  all  so  people  can 
plant  'em  in  their  yards,  and  for  the  biggest  and  nicest 
bunches  he  gets  forty  or  fifty  cents.  He  sells  bouquets 
of  black-eyed  Susan,  and  wild  carrot,  and  dogwood, 
and  such  flowers.  All  winter  he  picks  watercress  that 
grows  on  the  spring  branches.  There's  plenty  of  it 
now,  but  it's  gone  to  seed  and  has  too  many  snails  and 
bugs  on  it.  He  can't  get  much  from  the  woods  right 
in  the  dead  summer  time,  and  he  has  to  hire  out  some 
then.  You'll  find  him  doing  odd  jobs  around  till  after 
corn-cutting  and  husking  are  done.  But  he's  a  man 
that  wants  to  make  money  without  workin',  and  often 
he's  goin'  through  the  mountains  huntin'  gold  when  he 
might  be  earnin'  good  wages." 

By  this  time  the  storm  had  passed  on,  and  the  sun 
began  to  glimmer  through  the  breaking  clouds.  I 
called  the  woman's  attention  to  the  jubilant  singing  of 
the  birds. 


262    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"Them  birds  are  in  our  cherry  trees,"  was  her  com- 
ment. "That's  the  reason  they  are  singin'  so.  Up  the 
hill  we've  got  some  of  these  hyar  white  cherries,  and 
they're  nice.  There's  a  whole  lot  of  meat,  and  only  a 
little  bit  of  a  seed.  But  the  birds  take  nearly  all  of 
'em.  Are  you  thinkin'  of  startin'  now?"  she  asked, 
as  I  rose  to  go.  "Well,  the  shower  is  over,  but  they  say 
if  you  get  a  storm  in  the  morning  you'll  get  one  in  the 
afternoon.  That  pretty  near  always  comes  true,  too." 

The  outdoor  world  was  thoroughly  watersoaked. 
However,  a  breeze  soon  shook  the  lingering  drops  from 
the  tree  foliage,  and  a  hot,  bright  sun  dried  off  the  grass 
and  the  ground,  and  only  in  the  ruts  and  hollows  of  the 
road  did  there  continue  to  be  pools  and  mud. 

I  presently  left  Smoketown  and  betook  myself  to  a 
byway  that  skirted  the  mountain.  It  was  a  narrow, 
unfenced  road  through  a  park-like  forest  of  stately 
oak,  hickory,  and  chestnut  trees.  After  tramping 
several  miles  I  suddenly  emerged  in  a  forlorn  little 
hamlet,  which,  with  its  small  log  houses  huddling  close 
along  the  stony  main  highways  and  half-wild  lanes, 
seemed  a  remnant  of  some  former  rude  civilization. 
Back  of  the  village  loomed  the  highest  part  of  the 
mountain,  crowned  by  a  gloomy  ledge  known  as  Black 
Rock.  The  hamlet  itself  was  called  Bagtown.  One  of 
the  men  I  met  told  me  how  it  got  its  name.  "This  has 
been  an  old  settled  place  for  years,"  he  said,  "and  every 
fellow  who  lived  here  in  the  early  days,  when  he  went 
to  Beaver  Crick,  where  the  nearest  store  was,  brought 


Maryland  Days  263 

home  some  provisions  in  a  bag.  There  was  n't  nobody 
hardly  kept  horses,  and  they  went  back  and  forth  on 
foot.  A  stranger  happened  to  be  here  one  time,  and 
he  see  that  all  the  men  comin'  from  Beaver  Crick  car- 
ried bags,  and  he  said,  'Well,  this  is  certainly  Bag- 
town;'  and  it  has  gone  by  that  name  ever  since.  The 
next  village  north  on  this  mountain  road  is  Jugtown. 
There  they  used  to  come  home  carrying  jugs  instead  of 
bags." 

The  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  I  re- 
turned to  the  lowlands  and  began  to  seek  lodging  for 
the  night.  My  appeals  at  the  farmhouses  met  -with  a 
cold  response.  The  people  were  wholly  unsympathetic 
and  took  not  the  slightest  interest  in  my  plight.  They 
would  go  right  on  with  their  work  and  scarcely  bestow 
a  glance  on  me  or  offer  any  help  in  the  way  of  suggestion. 
The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that,  though  their  environ- 
ment was  seemingly  secluded,  and  their  homes  primi- 
tively rustic,  the  people  were  rich.  They  had  no  fellow- 
feeling  for  a  roving  stranger. 

I  was  plodding  on  discouraged  by  continued  rebuffs 
when  I  observed  a  young  fellow,  a  little  aside  from  the 
highway,  watering  a  horse  in  a  stream  that  flowed 
through  an  outlying  portion  of  a  barnyard.  Once  more 
I  ventured  a  request  for  lodging,  and  this  time  the 
response  held  a  ray  of  hope.  They  sometimes  kept 
travellers,  and  perhaps  they  would  keep  me,  but  I 
would  have  to  go  up  to  the  barn  and  ask  "Pop."  I 
went  through  the  straw-strewn  yard  to  the  barn  and 


264    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

interviewed  "Pop,"  who  in  turn  referred  me  to  the 
women  at  the  house,  and  they,  after  warning  me  that 
"everything  was  all  torn  up"  in  house-cleaning  opera- 
tions, agreed  that  I  might  stay. 

The  house  was  a  massive  structure  of  stone  backed 
up  against  a  steep  hill,  and  its  surroundings  were  quite 
idyllic.  Several  enormous,  thick-foliaged  willows  shad- 
owed it,  and  it  had  a  very  inviting  aspect  of  cool  com- 
fort and  repose.  In  front  was  a  narrow,  grassy  yard, 
across  which  a  roughly  flagged  path  led  through  a  gate 
to  the  same  stream  that  a  few  rods  farther  on  invaded 
a  corner  of  the  barnyard.  At  the  edge  of  the  stream, 
beyond  the  gate,  was  a  platform,  and  a  dam  just  below 
made  a  pool  which  served  as  a  washing-place.  Along 
the  pool's  muddy  borders  were  some  lively  colonies  of 
polliwogs,  or  "mulligrubs"  as  they  were  called  locally. 
Close  by  was  a  bench  with  soap  and  a  basin  on  it,  but 
the  men  and  children  preferred  to  resort  to  the  platform 
and  stoop  and  wash  their  hands  and  faces  with  a 
copious  splashing  of  the  water.  The  women  used  the 
bench,  as  a  rule,  though  they  often  did  minor  washing 
of  garments  right  in  the  pool. 

For  drinking  water  they  depended  on  a  wonderful 
spring  that  came  forth  from  the  earth  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  between  the  house  and  the  barn,  and  flowed 
away  a  full-fledged  crystal  brook.  The  spring's  broad 
expanse  was  stoutly  walled  about,  and  two  or  three 
steps  led  down  to  it.  On  the  verge  of  the  brook  was  the 
springhouse  in  which  the  milk,  cream,  and  butter  were 


Maryland  Days  265 

kept  in  stone  or  metal  receptacles  standing  right  in  the 
cool  water.  In  this  vicinity,  too,  was  the  washhouse 
with  its  ponderous  chimney  at  one  end  and  an  open 
fireplace  inside.  After  the  heat  and  stress  of  the  day 
it  was  delightful  to  sit  on  the  porch  of  this  pleasant 
old  mansion  and  hear  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  and 
the  clear  call  of  a  Bob  White  off  across  a  neighboring 
pasture  field,  and  the  domestic  sounds  indoors  and  out, 
and  to  watch  the  bevies  of  twittering  swallows  darting 
hither  and  thither  above  the  trees  and  roofs,  and  the 
fowls  and  dogs  and  cats  with  which  the  place  was  popu- 
lous, and  the  workers  coming  and  going  about  their 
tasks. 

The  family  consisted  of  a  man  and  his  wife,  their  son 
and  daughter-in-law,  and  two  small  boys  and  a  baby. 
By  and  by  the  farmer  came  to  the  house  and  brought 
out  a  United  Brethren  religious  weekly  for  me  to  read, 
but  its  pages  looked  so  glum  and  serious  that  I  did 
little  more  than  glance  it  through.  Now  and  then  I 
had  a  chance  to  chat  with  the  women  as  they  were 
getting  supper. 

"It's  nothing  but  cook  and  eat,  cook  and  eat,"  the 
older  woman  said  with  a  sigh.  "There's  lots  of  work 
on  a  big  place  like  this,  and  it  keeps  a  body  hustling 
around.  We've  got  a  good  bit  over  two  hundred  acres, 
and  we  harvest  nice  big  crops  of  corn  and  hay  and 
wheat.  Oh  my!  we're  goin'  to  have  a  fine  crop  of  wheat 
this  year  if  nothin'  happens  to  it.  This  farm  dates 
back  an  awful  ways.  The  house  was  built  when  there 


266    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

was  only  woods  here.  It's  very  well  situated  to  be 
comfortable  no  matter  what  the  weather  is.  Last 
winter  was  won'erful  cold — colder  than  was  ever  known 
by  any  of  our  old  people;  but  we  were  protected  by 
this  hill  on  the  north  side  of  the  house.  In  summer  the 
water  and  the  willow  trees  help  to  keep  us  cool.  I  have 
a  heap  of  company  then.  Saturday  week  we're  goin' 
to  have  a  little  setout  here  for  our  Sunday-school. 
Well,  supper's  ready." 

After  considerable  effort  she  got  the  members  of  the 
family  together,  and  we  ate.  Then  the  women  took 
their  pails  and  went  to  the  barnyard  to  milk,  and  I 
soon  followed  them  and  looked  on  from  outside  of  the 
high  rail  fence.  The  two  small  boys  lingered  at  the 
gate.  The  lesser  one  was  a  little  toad  of  a  fellow  who 
was  always  tumbling  down,  and  he  was  tired  and  sleepy 
so  that  he  often  had  a  spell  of  squalling,  and  his  mother 
had  to  give  him  her  attention  to  comfort  him.  The 
youngsters  wore  shoes,  but  no  stockings.  Overalls, 
shirt,  and  a  straw  hat  turned  up  behind  made  up  the 
rest  of  their  costume.  Presently  the  larger  boy  took 
off  his  shoes  and  amused  himself  by  throwing  them 
around  till  one  of  them  went  down  the  hill  into  the 
stream,  whence  I  rescued  it. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  dusk  was  thickening  into 
night.  Two  turkeys  flew  up  with  a  great  flutter  to 
roost  in  one  of  the  trees.  Several  of  the  neighbor's 
boys  were  wandering  about  in  the  pasture  meadow 
opposite  the  house.  "They're  lookin'  for  their  gos- 


Coming  from  the  spring 


Maryland  Days  267 

lings,"  the  shoeless  boy  said,  "but  I  reckon  the  goslings 
have  gone  up  the  crick." 

There  were  five  cows  chewing  their  cud  in  a  corner 
of  the  barnyard  near  a  dilapidated  but  still  sizable 
straw  heap.  The  older  woman  stood  and  leaned  against 
the  cow  she  was  milking.  The  younger  sat  on  her  heels. 
They  put  their  pails  on  the  ground. 

"Very  few  men  around  here  does  any  milking,"  the 
former  said.  "Lots  of 'em  don't  know  how.  Just  after 
we  were  married  we  spent  a  year  in  Illinois  and  hired 
out  on  a  farm.  The  men  there  thought  it  was  a  terrible 
thing  for  a  woman  to  milk,  but  I  said  to  'em,  'I  don't 
want  any  milk  that  you  fellers  milk.'  I  did  n't  like 
the  way  they  slopped  and  sloshed  around;  and  they'd 
curry  the  horses  and  go  to  milking  without  ever  wash- 
ing their  hands.  There  were  no  boys  in  my  father's 
family,  and  we  girls  did  the  housework  and  helped  Paw, 
too.  I  could  drive  a  six  horse  team.  I  wa'n't  the  sort 
to  lay  around  not  doin'  anythin',  but,  my  goodness! 
them  Illinois  women  looked  lazy  to  me.  The  farmer 
we  worked  for  was  an  old  bach,  and  he  said  to  my  man, 
when  we  left  him,  'I'll  give  you  a  horse  and  buggy  and 
ten  dollars  if  you'll  git  me  a  wife  like  yours. ": 

This  evening  her  man  had  driven  away  on  some 
errand.  Harry,  the  son,  busied  himself  feeding  the 
horses  and  the  "shoats."  Alice,  his  wife,  called  to  him 
that  she  had  cut  her  finger  and  wanted  him  to  take  her 
place,  but  he  did  not.  She  only  milked  one  cow,  and 
that  an  "easy"  one.  Her  energetic  mother-in-law 


268    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

milked  the  other  four  and  then  hurried  down  to  the 
springhouse,  where  six  cats  were  awaiting  her  coming. 
They  purred  ingratiatingly,  and  she  "slopped  off" 
some  of  the  warm  frothy  milk  from  the  top  of  one  of 
the  brimming  pails  into  a  dish  for  them.  The  pails 
were  soon  emptied  into  the  proper  receptacles,  and 
she  swashed  them  in  the  brook  and  hung  them  on  some 
pegs  to  dry.  That  done,  she  went  to  the  house  and 
tidied  herself  up.  "I'm  goin'  over  to  our  church  at 
Smoketown  practisin'  tonight,"  she  said.  "We're 
gettin'  ready  for  a  special  service  next  Sunday." 

Three  young  people  had  come  in  from  the  neighbors, 
and  one  of  them,  a  young  woman  with  a  music  book 
under  her  arm,  went  with  the  farmer's  wife  to  the 
practisin'.  The  others  were  a  neat  young  girl  and  a 
barefooted  boy  in  overalls.  Alice  showed  them  the 
baby.  "He's  got  Harry's  frown  and  my  complectiorv," 
she  said;  "and  just  look  at  how  big  his  feet  are — ten 
cent  shoes  won't  do  for  him  a  great  while.  I've  just 
got  the  two  boys  off  to  bed.  I  tell  you  what,  I'm  kept 
busy  now.  Clarence  ain't  much  more  than  a  baby, 
and  it's  about  all  one  person  wants  to  do  to  look  after 
him.  Perhaps  you  think  he  can't  travel  fast,  but  he's 
out  of  sight  in  no  time.  Yesterday  he  and  David  were  at 
the  spring  suckin'  water  through  straws,  and  he  fell 
in  head  over  heels.  The  water  was  just  up  to  his  neck." 

"Who  does  the  milking  at  your  house  now,  Grace?" 
Harry  inquired. 

"I  milk  three  cows,"  Grace  replied,  "and  Maw  milks 


Maryland  Days  269 

three  and  Tommy  here  milks  one.  Wes'  used  to  help, 
but  he's  got  above  milkin'  since  he  put  on  long  pants 
and  joined  the  church.  You  know  he  got  religion  lately 
at  the  big  meetin'  at  the  Beaver  Crick  Disciples  Church. 
We  all  went  every  evenin'  and  I'd  go  to  bed  so  tired 
they'd  have  to  call  me  'bout  a  dozen  times  before  I'd 
get  up  in  the  mornin'." 

"What  is  a  big  meeting?"  I  asked. 

In  response  Alice  said:  "It's  a  revival  meeting — 
that's  the  right  pronounciation  of  it.  'Twas  only  last 
Sunday  night  that  it  broke  up.  They'd  been  havin' 
it  for  two  weeks." 

"There  was  fifteen  converts,  I  think,"  observed 
Tommy. 

"Naw,  sir,  more  than  fifteen,"  Harry  declared,  and 
he  named  them  one  by  one  and  counted  them  up  on 
his  fingers. 

"I'm  goin'  up  home  to  stay  a  while  soon,"  Alice 
remarked.  "They  want  me  to  help  pick  berries." 

"Her  father's  a  trucker  and  lives  on  the  mountain," 
Harry  explained  to  me. 

"He  says  he  don't  know  where  he's  goin'  to  get 
pickers  at,"  Alice  continued,  "but  there's  a  good  many 
just  in  our  family,  and  it's  our  way  to  all  take  hold  and 
help.  Even  my  brother  Ned's  little  girl  helps.  She 
was  only  three  last  year,  but  she  would  pick  right  along 
with  her  mother,  two  boxes  in  the  forenoon  and  two 
in  the  afternoon.  That  was  her  idea  of  what  she  ought 
to  do,  and  as  soon  as  the  two  boxes  were  full  she'd  quit. 


270    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

I  picked  one  hundred  and  forty-three  quarts  of  black 
raspberries  one  day.  Ned  picked  the  other  side  of  my 
row,  and  he  carried  out  all  my  berries  with  his'n,  or  I 
would  n't  have  picked  so  many.  I  commenced  that 
morning  'bout  five  o'clock  and  kept  at  it  on  into  the 
evening  till  I  could  n't  see  to  pick  a  bush  clean.  It 
threw  Ned  back  carryin'  out  the  boxes  or  he'd  have 
picked  more  than  I  did.  He  can  beat  me  all  to  pieces. 
He's  got  a  sleight  of  hand  at  it,  but,  as  papa  says,  his 
berries  don't  look  as  nice  as  mine.  In  his  hurry  he 
grabs  off  red  ones,  and  he  don't  fill  up  his  boxes  like 
mine. 

"Papa  ain't  one  who  makes  you  work  too  hard. 
You  don't  have  to  get  back  to  pickin'  tireckly  after 
dinner,  but  can  rest  half  or  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
while  the  men  are  takin'  the  berries  into  the  smoke- 
house. But  of  course  we  don't  stop  if  it  looks  like  a 
gust  was  comin'  on.  After  supper  some  of  us  have  to 
wash  the  dishes  and  take  care  of  the  peepies  and  milk 
the  cows,  and  only  a  few  go  out  picking. 

"Last  year  papa's  raspberries  were  like  good  big 
marbles.  I'd  rather  pick  'em  than  strawberries.  You 
don't  have  to  stoop  so  much  and  don't  get  so  wet  in 
the  dew.  We  don't  have  many  strawberries  on  this 
place,  and  today  we  bought  some.  I'm  kind  o'  sorry 
we  did.  We  got  'em  of  a  Bagtown  man,  and  every 
time  he  says  a  word  he  spits.  I'm  afraid  the  berries 
are  not  clean." 

Harry  had  taken  up  a  local  paper  and  was  reading  it. 


Maryland  Days  271 

Alice  asked  him  for  the  middle  sheet.  "They  always 
tell  about  the  weddings  and  parties  on  the  inside,"  she 
said,  "and  that's  what  I  like  to  read  about." 

But  Harry  was  loth  to  part  with  that  interesting 
portion  of  the  paper,  and  his  wife  induced  him  to  sur- 
render it  by  snapping  him  playfully  with  a  toy  whip  of 
the  children's. 

Soon  afterward  I  retired,  and  then  the  young  people 
gathered  about  the  family  organ  and  enjoyed  them- 
selves singing  hymns. 

At  half-past  five  the  next  morning  I  was  aroused  by  a 
rap  on  my  door  and  the  announcement  that  breakfast 
was  ready.  The  work  day  of  the  older  members  of  the 
household  had  begun  some  time  before,  and,  when  I 
descended  to  the  kitchen  the  women  were  carrying  the 
food  for  the  morning  meal  to  the  dining  room.  In  the 
latter  apartment  I  could  hear  the  farmer  reading  in  a 
mumbling  monotone.  Once  he  came  out  to  the  kitchen 
bringing  a  Sunday-school  lesson  paper  in  his  hand  and 
pointed  out  to  Alice  some  religious  statement  that 
seemed  to  settle  to  his  satisfaction  a  point  on  which 
they  had  differed.  Then  he  went  back  and  resumed  his 
mumbling. 

I  washed  my  hands  and  face  at  the  pool  in  the  crick, 
and  wiped  on  a  towel  in  the  kitchen.  When  I  finished, 
Harry  said  to  me,  "We're  goin'  to  have  pra'rs;"  and 
the  several  members  of  the  family  who  were  scattered 
about  the  two  rooms  kneeled  while  the  head  of  the 
house  prayed  long  and  fervently. 


272    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

As  soon  as  breakfast  had  been  eaten  the  men  went 
off  to  the  barn,  and  Mrs.  Farmer  remarked  to  me  that 
she  did  n't  get  home  from  the  practicin'  till  after  eleven. 
"They  was  all  talkin'  about  you  there,"  she  said.  "The 
way  you  looked  around  and  talked  with  'em  made  some 
of  'em  think  you  was  takin'  a  census  of  the  world,  and 
others  thought  you  was  workin'  for  agriculture." 

I  expressed  surprise  that  she  was  able  to  start  the 
day's  tasks  at  the  usual  early  hour  after  being  out  so 
late.  "Well,"  she  said,  "if  you've  got  a  big  lot  to  do 
like  I  have  you  must  go  at  it  whether  you  want  to  or 
not.  I've  sat  up  many  a  time  sewing  till  twelve  and 
one  to  have  clothes  for  the  children.  We  need  an  extra 
helper  in  the  house,  but  hired  girls  are  pretty  dear. 
You  have  to  pay  'em  two  dollars  a  week,  and  you  can't 
hire  a  woman  by  the  day  for  less'n  fifty  cents." 

She  took  up  a  pail  and  went  out  to  fill  it  at  the  spring. 
I  was  looking  in  that  direction  from  an  open  window 
when  she  observed  a  cat  prowling  in  the  chicken  yard. 
"Scat  cat!"  she  cried.  "If  I  ketch  you  ketchin'  the 
peepies  'twill  be  the  worse  for  you;"  and  she  heaved 
several  stones  at  the  creature,  which  scampered  off  in 
a  panic. 

A  few  moments  later  she  came  in  with  the  pail  of 
water.  "Daddy's  goin'  to  plough  the  preacher's  truck 
patch  this  mornin',"  she  said.  "That  truck  patch  is 
where  the  preacher  of  our  United  Brethren  church 
grows  his  potatoes,  and  Lima  beans,  and  the  like  o'  that. 
He  takes  good  care  of  it,  but  don't  work  in  it  every  day. 


Maryland  Days  273 

Some  days  he  works  out  at  carpentering.  The  United 
Brethren  have  two  churches  at  Smoketown.  One  is 
radicals  and  one  is  liberals.  All  the  difference  in  'em 
is  that  the  liberals  allow  their  members  to  belong  to 
lodges,  and  the  radicals  don't.  The  radicals  contend 
that  to  belong  to  these  here  lodges  and  secret  societies 
draws  away  a  person's  attention  from  religious  things, 
and  their  support  from  the  church.  I  was  only  a  girl 
when  they  had  their  split  on  that  subject.  The  church 
pretty  near  went  under.  Oh,  they  had  bitter  feeling 
at  first,  but  now  they're  about  ready  to  make  up." 

When  I  left  the  old  stone  house  where  I  had  been  so 
hospitably  entertained  I  continued  for  some  time  my 
wanderings  in  the  vicinity,  for  the  region  seemed  to  me 
particularly  delightful.  The  highways  were  very  narrow 
and  were  flanked  by  gray  fences  of  post  and  rails  or 
quarterboards,  with  sudden  transitions  to  whitewashed 
palings  in  front  of  home  premises.  Life  here  was  evi- 
dently quaint  and  quiet,  like  a  leaf  out  of  the  past.  It 
was  a  nook  uninvaded  by  modern  conditions — an  eddy 
in  the  current  of  national  progress  undisturbed  by  the 
hurrying  tides  of  business.  Year  after  year  the  land 
produced  great  crops  to  feed  mankind,  and  the  money 
returns  were  generous.  The  people  worked  persistently, 
and  their  days  of  labor  were  long,  yet  they  did  not  lack 
incidental  breathing  spells,  and  had  the  pleasures  of 
prosperity,  of  interest  in  the  neighbors,  and  of  religious 
recreation  and  contemplation. 

At  one  of  the  old  wayside  homes  the  farmer  showed 


274    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

me  about  the  place.  Among  other  things  he  called  my 
attention  to  a  great  ash  tree  and  said:  "Ain't  he  a 
bird? — ain't  he  a  dandy?  How  fur  do  you  guess  those 
branches  spread?  I  think  seventy  feet  anyhow.  Yah, 
you  bet!  You  see  this  grindstone?  I  fixed  those  cog 
wheels  myself  to  make  it  go  fast.  But  the  stone  is  most 
worn  away.  I'm  goin'  to  get  a  new  stone  and  then  I'll 
cut  the  buck  (do  rapid  work).  There's  a  lot  of  goslings 
yust  goin'  into  the  crick.  Them's  ourn.  That  hen 
hatched  'em  out.  Hear  her  cackle.  Now  she  flies  over 
the  stream.  She  has  a  big  time  with  'em  all  right.  They 
don't  give  her  any  peace,  and  she's  runnin'  around 
a-cluckin'  all  day  long.  She's  afraid  now  they're  goin' 
to  drown,  I  reckon. 

"Look  into  this  holler  tree,  and  you'll  see  an  old 
goose  settin'  in  there.  She  found  the  place  herself  and 
drove  out  some  tame  rabbits  that  had  been  living  in 
there  with  their  young  ones. 

"My  wife's  been  makin'  butter  this  mornin' — her 
'n'  our  oldest  girl.  Hyar's  the  churn  in  front  of  the 
springhouse.  Yust  step  through  the  springhouse  door. 
The  water  comes  in  at  that  little  hole  no  bigger  than 
your  thumb,  in  the  corner.  Yah,  and  you  may  think 
I'm  lyin'  to  you,  but  it  always  flows  yust  the  same,  no 
matter  how  dry  or  how  wet  the  weather  is.  Last  year 
eighteen  pounds  of  butter  that  we  had  in  hyar  was 
stolen.  A  huckster  had  engaged  to  take  it,  but  he  was 
beat  out.  When  he  came  there  wa'n't  none  for  him. 
I  keep  everything  locked  now.  Ha,  ha!  There's  a 


The  wash-house 


Maryland  Days  275 

clique  of  fellers  up  along  the  mountain  who  would  help 
themselves  a  little  too  often,  if  I  did  n't.  A  short  time 
ago  one  of  the  neighbors  was  goin'  to  have  company  for 
Sunday,  and  he  shut  up  some  chickens  intendin'  to  eat 
a  chicken  dinner  with  his  visitors.  But  Saturday  night 
the  chickens  were  stolen.  We  think  we  know  the  thief. 
He's  got  a  wife  and  children,  and  they  live  good  and 
dress  good,  and  yet  they  don't  work  none  at  all.  This 
feller  goes  in  town  every  market  day  and  he  comes  out 
with  a  whole  big  basket  full  of  stuff.  I  been  talkin' 
to  the  sheriff  about  this  hyar  feller.  'You  folks  in 
town,'  says  I,  'have  got  loads  and  loads  of  police.  Yust 
watch  the  roads  on  market  days  and  see  what  that 
feller  brings  to  market.' 

"But  the  sheriff  wouldn't  do  anything,  and  I'm 
goin'  to  see  what  I  can  do  myself.  If  I  ketch  him 
stealin'  on  this  place  I'll  fix  him  all  right.  I've  got  the 
guns,  and  I've  got  the  ammunition.  Come  in  the  house, 
and  I'll  show  'em  to  you.  I've  spoken  about  my  inten- 
tions to  the  preacher,  and  he  wants  me  to  use  a  shotgun 
and  only  yust  burn  the  feller  a  little.  But  that  would 
make  him  mad,  and  like  enough  he'd  come  and  burn 
my  buildings.  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  shoot  to  scare.  I'm 
goin'  to  shoot  to  kill,  and  he'll  never  trouble  us  any 
more.  A  man  that  steals  is  too  ornery  to  live. 

"There's  no  need  of  stealing  in  these  days.  Every 
industrious  man  around  hyar  does  well,  and  this  is  an 
awful  rich  settlement.  The  man  I  rented  this  place 
from  seven  years  ago  was  worth  nearly  a  hundred 


276    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

thousand  dollars.  I'd  been  living  in  another  town,  but 
I  came  to  see  him  when  I  heard  that  the  place  was  for 
rent. 

"  'Ach!'  he  says,  for  he  always  grunted  every  time  he 
started  to  speak,  'I  don't  know  nuttin'  about  you. 
What  sort  of  a  reputation  have  you  got?' 

"'People  talk  about  me  yust  like  they  do  about  you,' 
I  said.  'Some'll  tell  you  I'm  a  blame  rascal,  and  others 
that  I'm  all  right.' 

"'Ach!'  he  says,  'how  many  children  have  you  got?' 

"'Six,'  I  says. 

'"Ach!  that's  too  many,'  he  says. 

"'How  many  have  you  got?'  I  asked  him. 

'"Ach!  two,'  he  says. 

'"You're  luckier'n  I  am,'  I  says.  'But  what'll  I  do 
with  mine — kill  'em?' 

'"Ach!  well,'  he  says,  'I  think  you're  a  pretty  good 
feller,'  and  he  rented  me  the  farm. 

"But  for  all  he  was  so  rich  he  was  greatly  worried 
for  fear  he  was  goin'  to  get  poor  and  have  to  work  for 
somebody,  and  at  last  he  committed  suicide.  He  was 
one  of  the  nicest  men  I  ever  knowed.  The  landlord  I 
had  before  I  came  here  was  rich,  too,  but  he  was 
grabbin'  and  scrapin'  after  every  cent,  I  tell  yer,  and 
he  was  always  gettin'  into  a  splutter,  with  his  mouth 
runnin'  like  a  bell  clapper.  He  thought  it  was  yust 
throwin'  away  money  when  some  of  his  relatives  made 
a  trip  to  California. 

"But  what's  the  use  of  bein'  so  chinchy?    Men  come 


Maryland  Days  277 

along  asking  for  food  or  lodging — and  they  may  be 
tramps  or  beggars,  but  whatever  they  are,  we  never 
turn  'em  away.  If  a  man  is  too  dirty  to  sleep  in  the 
house  we  let  him  take  a  blanket  or  something  like  that 
and  sleep  in  the  barn.  It's  curious,  but  some  of  those 
fellers  with  no  place  to  lay  their  heads  except  what  the 
Lord  gives  'em  seem  perfectly  contented;  and  after 
all,  what  does  it  amount  to,  if  you  have  this  whole 
world  and  ain't  happy?" 

This  man's  attitude  toward  the  stranger  and  the 
unfortunate  was  akin  to  that  of  the  family  with  which 
I  had  lodged.  I  suppose  it  was  a  matter  of  religion 
with  them.  They  belonged  to  the  sect  of  United 
Brethren  or  Dunkards.  The  latter  word  is  derived  from 
a  German  word  meaning  to  "dip,"  and  the  Dunkards 
were  originally  German  Baptists.  They  are  particularly 
numerous  in  Maryland  and  the  several  states  adjacent. 
They  accept  the  Bible  with  extreme  literalness  and  try 
to  follow  the  example  of  Christ  with  technical  faith- 
fulness. Their  garments  are  very  plain,  yet  are  not 
so  peculiar  as  to  attract  marked  notice  except  in  the 
case  of  the  women,  who,  when  they  don  their  best 
clothes,  wear  a  queer  little  bonnet  without  any  trim- 
mings. 

One  day  I  had  a  chance  to  observe  a  considerable 
number  of  Dunkards  on  a  train.  They  were  returning 
from  an  annual  conference  in  a  Pennsylvania  town.  I 
sat  in  the  same  seat  with  an  elderly  Dunkard  who  told 
me  something  of  their  beliefs.  He  acknowledged  that 


278    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

the  trend  away  from  simplicity  was  irresistable,  and 
said:  "I  don't  think  the  men  need  to  have  clothes 
just  alike.  If  your  heart  is  all  right,  you  can  put  on  a 
good  suit,  and  it  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  you.  But  you  can't 
go  too  far.  You  see  the  women's  bonnets — they  can 
have  'em  any  color  and  different  in  shape,  if  only  the 
bonnets  are  modest  and  small.  About  the  next  thing 
they'll  be  after  will  be  flowers  and  ribbons  on  the  bon- 
nets. We'd  feel  obliged  to  take  a  woman  to  task  if  she 
was  to  put  on  one  of  the  big  hats  that  are  fashionable 
now.  As  a  preacher  said  at  the  conference,  'A  woman 
with  her  heart  full  of  Jesus  Christ  would  n't  run  around 
with  a  dishpan  on  her  head.' 

"I  don't  believe  a  man  who  chews  tobacco  ought  to 
be  a  delegate  to  the  conference.  The  church  don't 
approve  of  tobacco,  or  whiskey,  or  neckties,  and  we 
think  dancing  and  all  such  stuff  is  wrong.  I  used  to 
drink  whiskey,  but  I  knowed  it  was  n't  right,  and  I 
just  made  up  my  mind  to  give  it  up.  How  can  you 
jump  on  a  man  for  wearing  a  necktie  if  he  can  pick  on 
you  for  chewing  tobacco  or  drinking  whiskey? 

"Parents  are  supposed  to  instruct  their  young  ones, 
and  train  'em,  and  keep  'em  under  if  they  can,  but  what 
the  older  one  are  used  to  don't  always  content  the  young 
ones.  Some  want  an  organ  in  the  church,  and  we're 
fightin'  that.  Our  churches  are  plain  and  substantial, 
with  no  spire,  and  I  never  see  one  that  had  a  bell  on  it. 

"Every  three  months  we  have  a  council  at  which 
we're  supposed  to  tell  on  one  another  if  we  know  any 


Maryland  Days  279 

have  done  things  that  ain't  proper.  A  person  who's 
shown  not  to  have  done  right  has  to  promise  to  do 
better,  or  out  he  goes. 

"If  one  of  the  brethren  lends  money  to  another  he 
don't  charge  interest,  but  he  expects  to  be  paid  back 
at  the  time  agreed  on.  Perhaps  the  debtor  don't  do 
that.  Then  the  other  can  tell  some  of  the  deacons, 
and  they  talk  with  the  man,  and  if  he  still  won't  pay 
they  throw  him  out.  After  than  he  can  be  sued. 

"We  have  a  love  feast  every  fall,  and  you've  got  to  be 
pure,  or  you  don't  feel  like  steppin'  up  there  and  takin' 
the  loaf.  If  I'm  mad  at  you,  and  you're  mad  at  me  we 
have  to  make  up.  But  in  other  denominations  people 
can  be  so  mad  they  won't  speak  to  each  other  and  yet 
will  go  through  all  the  church  ceremonies  just  the 
same." 

Some  other  details  that  I  gathered  from  an  outsider 
may  be  of  interest  in  this  connection.  "  I  like  to  go  to 
their  fall  meeting,"  he  said.  "It's  worth  while  just 
for  the  singing.  When  all  those  Dunkards  cut  loose 
singing  I'd  as  soon  hear  'em  as  a  crack  band. 

"They  go  through  the  Lord's  Supper  just  as  it's 
described  in  the  Bible.  A  mutton  has  been  killed  and 
a  big  kittle  of  soup  made,  or  perhaps  a  piece  of  beef  has 
been  boiled  because  some  don't  like  mutton.  They  sit 
down  on  benches  along  either  side  of  tables  in  the 
church,  and  each  person  has  a  bowl  of  the  broth.  You 
ought  to  see  those  old  fellows  go  down  into  it.  You 
can  hear  their  lips  sippin'  all  over  the  church,  and  they 


280    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

take  bites  of  bread  big  as  my  fist.  After  they  finish 
eating  they  wash  each  other's  feet.  The  men  have 
their  tub,  and  the  women  have  theirs.  A  man  will  sit 
down  and  put  his  feet  in  the  water,  and  another  man 
with  a  towel  fastened  around  his  waist  washes  and  wipes 
the  brother's  feet.  Afterwards  they  kiss — yes,  kiss 
right  square  in  the  mug  and  distribute  their  germs.  It 
makes  a  sound  about  like  slapping  two  shingles  to- 
gether. They  kiss  and  smollok  too  on  Sunday  when 
they  meet  at  church.  Seems  kind  o'  queer,  don't  it? 
That  reminds  me  of  old  man  Broil.  He  always  took 
the  contrary  side  in  an  argument.  He'd  argue  with 
the  preacher  till  he  had  him  wound  up  so  tight  it  was 
like  havin'  him  down  with  Broil's  thumb  on  his  mouth. 
Well,  Broil  said  it  would  be  a  pity  to  have  everybody 
believe  alike.  'Why,'  said  he,  'if  they  did  that,  all  the 
other  men  would  want  my  wife  and  there'd  be  a  dickens 
of  a  time.": 

MARYLAND  NOTES. — A  number  of  good  pikes  radiate  from 
Hagarstown  and  make  sightseeing  easy  for  the  motorist,  and  rail- 
roads and  trolley  lines  are  available  to  visit  many  interesting  places 
in  the  region.  The  rude  mountain  settlements  are  only  a  few  miles 
away.  Twenty-six  miles  from  Hagarstown,  on  the  route  to  Wash- 
inton,  is  Frederick,  the  scene  of  Barbara  Frietchie's  exploit  with  the 
flag  and  Stonewall  Jackson.  Frederick,  too,  is  of  interest  as  the 
burial  place  of  Francis  Scott  Key,  author  of  "The  Star  Spangled 
Banner." 

The  great  battle  of  Antietam  was  fought  12  miles  south  of 
Hagarstown,  and  the  battlefield  of  Gettysburg  is  28  miles  north. 

Two  places  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  state  that  are  particularly 


Maryland  Days  281 

worthy  of  a  visit  are  Baltimore,  the  "City  of  Monuments,"  and 
Annapolis,  the  capital.  The  former  is  one  of  the  chief  Atlantic  sea- 
ports. Before  the  days  of  railroad  transportation  it  was  the  princi- 
pal center  for  the  trade  with  the  West.  Goods  and  produce  were 
carried  across  the  mountains  in  huge  broad-wheeled  wagons,  usu- 
ally covered,  and  especially  adapted  for  travelling  in  soft  soil. 

On  the  road  to  Washington,  10  miles  from  Baltimore,  is  the  town 
of  Relay,  so  named  because  here  horses  were  changed  that  drew 
the  coaches  on  the  first  railroad  built  in  America.  The  cars  were 
shanty-like  structures,  12  feet  long,  with  3  windows  on  each  side, 
and  a  table  in  the  middle. 

The  first  American  telegraph  line  was  built  from  Baltimore  to 
Washington,  42  miles,  in  1844. 

In  1904  a  conflagration  swept  over  an  area  of  150  acres  and  de- 
stroyed property  to  the  value  of  $70,000,000. 

On  Monument  Street  are  the  buildings  of  Johns  Hopkins  Uni- 
versity, founded  in  1876  by  a  bequest  of  $3,500,000  from  a  Balti- 
more merchant,  whose  name  the  institution  bears. 

Among  the  former  residents  of  the  city  was  Francis  Scott  Key 
who  wrote  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner"  while  a  prisoner  on  board 
one  of  the  British  men-of-war  which  were  bombarding  Fort  Mc- 
Henry  at  the  entrance  to  Baltimore  harbor  in  1814. 

Edgar  Allen  Poe,  another  poet  associated  with  Baltimore,  wrote 
"The  Raven,"  one  of  his  most  notable  poems,  while  living  here, 
and  his  tomb  is  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Westminster  Presbyterian 
Church. 

Quaint  old  Annapolis  is  27  miles  south  of  Baltimore.  Its  chief 
industry  is  oyster  packing.  In  the  grounds  of  St.  John's  College 
here  is  the  famous  "Tree  of  Liberty,"  with  a  girth  of  30  feet  and 
an  estimated  age  of  700  years.  Under  it  a  treaty  is  said  to  have 
been  made  with  the  Indians  by  the  early  settlers.  The  town  is  best 
known  as  the  seat  of  the  United  States  Naval  Academy,  founded 
in  1845,  the  buildings  of  which  are  picturesquely  located  on  the 
Severn  River. 


XIII 

BESIDE    THE    RAPPAHANNOCK 

I  WENT  into  northern  Virginia  with  the  especial  pur- 
pose of  visiting  the  Wilderness  of  Civil  War  fame, 
but  on  the  way  thither  spent  considerable  time  at 
the  old  town  of  Fredericksburg  where  another  of  the 
great  battles  of  the  war  was  fought.  One  of  the  first 
things  to  which  my  attention  was  called  was  a  scar  on 
a  building  near  the  railroad  station  "made  by  a  South- 
ern bumbshell,"  and  the  town  looked  as  if  it  had  never 
wholly  recovered  from  that  battering  of  a  half  century 
before.  It  is  high  on  the  west  bank  of  the  muddy 
Rappahannock,  and  is  a  trading  center  for  the  farm 
country  around.  The  long  Main  Street  is  lined  by  two 
and  three  story  brick  buildings  with  roofs  that  pitch 
toward  the  street  and  massive  chimneys.  In  the 
residence  districts  are  beautiful  homes  environed  by 
a  wealth  of  trees  and  vines,  and  many  quaint  or  shabbily 
picturesque  dwellings  of  both  white  and  colored  folk 
of  the  humbler  classes.  On  the  June  day  that  my 
acquaintance  with  the  place  began  a  light  breeze 
fluttered  the  leafage,  and  now  and  then  a  puff  of  wind 
stirred  the  dust  in  the  streets,  but  the  heat  was  never- 
theless oppressive,  and  everyone  who  could  do  so  kept 
to  the  shade. 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  283 

Tn  my  leisurely  rambling  I  came  across  an  old  colored 
woman  sitting  in  a  broken-backed  chair  in  front  of  a 
low-eaved  brick  house  where  poverty  and  squalor  were 
very  evident.  Some  of  her  one-garmented  little  grand- 
children were  playing  contentedly  in  the  dirt  before  the 
door.  I  spoke  with  her  and  learned  that  she  had  lived 
in  the  vicinity  all  her  life,  and  that  at  the  time  of  the 
battle  she  had  occupied  a  house  five  miles  from  the 
town  "right  up  the  plank  road." 

"Me  'n'  my  children  and  husband  lived  there," 
she  continued.  "The  house  was  a  log  cabin  with  one 
room  downstairs  and  one  upstairs.  We  wa'n't  slaves. 
My  foreparents  was  Injun  people,  and  we  was  jus'  as 
free  as  you  are.  I  hearn  my  ol'  gran'mother  tell  where 
they  come  from,  but  I  done  forgot. 

"T'other  day  they  were  blastin'  up  rock  back  of  the 
town,  and  I  says,  'My  gracious  alive!  puts  me  in  mind 
of  war  time.'  That  was  a  great  old  time,  I  tell  yer.  The 
shells  was  flyin'  over  the  top  of  my  house — zee!  zee! 
My  Lord!  I  had  a  narrer  escape,  yes,  sir.  I  would  n't 
like  to  see  that  time  no  mo'  if  I  could  possibly  help.  I 
disremember  what  season  of  the  year  it  was.  It's  been 
a  right  smart  while  since  then,  and  I've  been  through  so 
many  hard,  rough  roads  and  seen  so  much  trouble  some 
things  have  gone  off  my  mind.  But  I  think  it  was  cold 
weather  and  that  there  was  snow  on  the  ground.  My 
husband  was  scareder'n  I  was.  He  run,  but  I  hid.  I 
went  down  to  a  neighbor's  house  where  they  had  a 
cellar  all  bricked  up,  and  I  stayed  underneath  there. 


284    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"After  they  got  done  fighting  I  saw  the  wounded 
soldiers  layin'  up  in  the  bushes  moanin'  and  groanin', 
some  with  their  legs  shot  off,  and  some  with  their  arms 
gone.  The  next  day  I  was  out  in  the  woods  on  one  of 
the  little  bypaths,  and  I  heard  groans  and  saw  a  man 
lyin'  in  a  holler  with  his  feet  right  in  the  branch.  I  was 
scared  nearly  to  death,  and  I  took  off  and  run  as  hard 
as  I  could  go  and  hollered  and  told  some  soldiers.  Yes, 
war  time  is  an  awful  thing. 

"We  had  the  armies  here  a  long  while,  marching 
and  camping.  Some  of  the  troops  was  colored,  and 
when  they  got  here  I  thought  the  world  was  comin'  to 
an  end  they  were  so  hard  and  so  fiery.  Perhaps  a  rush 
of  soldiers  would  come  at  night  and  surround  your 
house  and  order  you  to  give  'em  what  you  had  or  they'd 
take  your  life,  and  you'd  give  'em  the  las'  crumb  to 
save  yo'self.  But  gin'rally  the  soldiers  was  mighty 
good  to  me.  If  I  was  short  of  food  they'd  give  me 
hardtacks  and  beef,  special  when  they  saw  I  had  a 
parcel  of  little  children.  They  all  treated  me  very 
polite,  both  sides.  Some  low  character  might  go  off 
and  get  liquor  and  then  be  dangerous,  but  if  a  man  was 
steady  and  had  any  principle  he'd  not  trouble  you, 
unless  you  was  kind  o'  for'ard  and  frisky  and  encour- 
aged 'em.  That  wa'n't  my  way.  I  never  had  anything 
mo'  to  say  to  'em  than  I  could  help. 

"They  hired  me  to  wash,  and  I  did  washing  for  one 
soldier  who  was  a  big  rascal.  He  paid  me  off  with  a 
ten  dollar  note  that  was  the  prettiest  thing  I  ever  laid 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  285 

my  eyes  on,  but  'twa  n't  any  account.  I  was  ve'y 
glad  when  they  all  went  away,  and  I  got  shut  of  'em. 
Some  went  on  such  sudden  notice  that  they  had  to  take 
their  clothes  wet  right  out  of  the  wash.  Often  they 
could  n't  carry  all  that  belonged  to  'em.  They'd  have 
the  greatest  quantity  of  things — pants  and  shirts  and 
such  like  sent  from  home — and  they'd  leave  'em  behind. 
There  was  a  big  waste  that  time,  but  I  saved  right 
smart. 

"It  look  like  war  was  comin'  ag'in  times  are  so  rough. 
A  dollar's  worth  of  groceries  used  to  last  half  a  week, 
but  now  won't  last  a  day.  Why,  jus'  the  common  white 
meat — I  mean  hog — what  we  call  fat  back,  that  you 
never  see  no  lean  in — costs  fifteen  cents  a  pound;  and 
the  idee  of  people  havin'  to  pay  a  dollar  a  bushel  for 
corn  meal!  My  goodness,  if  they  don't  poke  it  onto 
you  here!" 

A  young  negro  who  had  his  chair  tilted  back  against 
the  housewall  a  few  paces  away  made  the  comment 
that,  "There's  nothing  cheap  now  but  soap  and  coal 
oil;  and  you  can't  eat  the  soap,  and  you  can't  drink  the 
coal  oil." 

"The  worst  of  it  is  that  they're  knockin'  down  wages 
instead  of  raisin'  'em,"  the  old  woman  resumed.  "You 
hear  the  men  grumblin',  and  sayin'  they  don't  see  how 
they  can  live.  If  a  man  with  a  family  gets  a  dollar  and 
a  half  a  day,  that'll  only  pay  for  their  grub,  and  all 
the  time  he  jus'  gets  right  where  he  started  at.  On 
the  farms  the  day  wages  are  only  sixty  and  seventy- 


286    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

five  cents,  or  if  it's  a  dollar  you  got  to  do  two  men's 
work." 

"They  have  to  work  from  six  to  six,"  the  young 
negro  said,  "and  that's  a  long  day — you  bet  it  is!" 

"I  went  to  Washington  once,"  the  old  woman  said, 
"and  I  stayed  three  weeks.  But  I  was  raised  here,  and 
it  seem  I  would  n't  like  no  other  place.  My  daughter 
was  in  Washington,  and  she  was  sick.  She  did  n't 
'cease  while  I  was  there,  but  got  better  and  so  I  came 
home,  and  the  next  day  she  died. 

"The  only  other  time  I  been  off  was  one  day  when 
I  went  across  the  river  'bout  ten  miles.  I  visited  rela- 
tives who  live  over  that-a-way,  and  they  were  mighty 
frien'ly  and  kind,  but  it  wa'n't  natural  to  me  there. 
I  won't  go  out  of  Fredericksburg  again.  Let  me  stay 
here  and  die.  It  won't  be  long,  now.  I  suffer  with  a 
misery  in  my  head.  Some  nights  I  have  to  get  up  and 
bind  my  head  with  a  cloth  dipped  in  vinegar,  or  else  I 
could  n't  stand  it  till  next  day.  That's  made  me  lose 
my  hair.  It  used  to  be  real  long,  but  now  there's  not 
much  left.  Yes,  it's  the  same  with  me  as  with  other 
people — we  have  so  bad  feelin's  in  this  world  sometimes 
it  look  like  we  can't  live,  but  we  get  along  tolerable 
well — things  could  be  worse." 

About  this  time  two  of  the  younger  members  of  the 
household  returned  from  an  excursion  in  the  fields.  One 
carried  a  pail  of  cherries,  and  the  other  a  handful  of 
daisies. 

"That's  the  way  I  used  to  do,"  the  old  woman  said. 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  287 

"I'd  climb  the  trees  to  pick  cherries;  and  I'd  pull  the 
flowers  and  have  'em  on  the  mantelpiece  or  bureau, 
and  they  looked  mighty  nice." 

One  of  the  youngsters  made  some  remark  to  her  that 
she  thought  was  not  properly  considerate,  and  she 
said:  "Old  people  ain't  much  in  the  children's  eyes 
now.  Things  are  turned  around  altogether  late  years 
from  what  they  used  to  be.  When  I  was  comin'  along 
up,  if  a  grown  person  spoke  to  me  I'd  mind  without  no 
jawin',  and  I  never  had  to  be  told  to  do  a  thing  but  once. 
I  see  little  small  boys  goin'  along  these  days  with  a 
pocketful  of  cigarets  and  a  box  of  matches.  Smokin'  has 
got  common  among  the  women,  too.  They  use  pipes. 
Befo'  the  war  ve'y  few  women  smoked,  but  they  used 
snuff.  They  put  it  inside  their  under  lip,  and  I  thought 
that  was  the  dirtiest-lookin'  trick  I  ever  saw. 

"We  all  worked  hard  then  that  was  able,  and  if  yo' 
was  to  go  to  our  homes  durih'  the  day  yo'd  find  no  one 
there  but  the  old  ones  takin'  care  of  the  little  children. 
I  worked  in  the  corn  and  wheat  fields,  and  I  grubbed, 
and  I  split  rails.  I'd  help  saw  trees  down,  and  bark 
'em,  and  split  'em  to  make  bar'l  timbers.  I  did  n't  use 
to  turn  my  back  to  anything.  But  now  I  can  only 
jus'  sit  around.  It's  hard  scuff,  certainly." 

A  spectacled,  middle-aged  colored  man  from  across 
the  street  had  joined  us.  He  came  ostensibly  to  ask 
the  people  of  the  house  if  "you-all  were  going  to  Sunday- 
school  tomorrow,"  but  he  soon  observed  the  trend  of 
my  conversation  with  the  old  woman  toward  events  in 


288    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

the  past,  and  remarked:  "I  think  you'd  like  to  strike 
up  with  oP  man  Grierson.  The  old-timey  people  have 
mostly  died,  but  he  was  here  when  Noah  built  the  ark; 
and  he  ain't  dumb  either.  He'll  tell  you  all  that  ever 
happened  in  these  parts.  I  was  born  just  before  the 
war  began,  myself.  My  home  was  at  Chancellorsville, 
and  the  soldiers  came  there  and  fought  one  day  and 
then  went  away.  What  a  change  that  one  day  did 
make  in  the  look  of  the  country!  You  would  n't  know 
it,  everything  was  so  torn  to  pieces.  It  was  the  awful- 
est  sight  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  We  could  hardly  realize 
what  had  happened.  I  went  out  into  the  woods  with 
my  mother,  holdin'  on  to  her  dress,  and  we  saw  the 
limbs  and  trees  and  bushes  all  cut  down  by  the  chain 
shot  that  had  gone  slingin'  around  through  'em;  and 
there  were  great  piles  of  crackers,  knee-high;  and  there 
were  guns  and  harness  and  clothes  strewed  about;  and 
there  were  breastworks  that  I'd  climb  up  on  and  jump 
down  from.  I  told  my  mother  I  wanted  some  of  them 
guns,  but  she  did  n't  know  whether  they  were  loaded  or 
not,  and  when  I  picked  up  one  she'd  say:  'Put  that 
down.  It'll  kill  you.'  But  I  took  some  of  the  bridles 
home  and  made  a  swing. 

"I  was  still  only  a  little  boy  when  several  of  the 
neighbors  come  hurryin'  into  our  house  in  great  excite- 
ment and  said  that  Richmon'  had  gone  up.  So  I  ran 
out  and  looked  up  hopin'  to  see  it.  I  thought  it  was 
some  cur'us  sort  of  buzzard  or  alligator — I  did  n't 
know  what  it  was.  Well,  I  never  saw  nothin',  and  I 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  289 

went  back  and  spoke  to  'em  about  it;  but  they  told 
me  I  did  n't  have  no  sense  and  to  go  and  set  down. 

"That  was  a  great  war.  There  was  no  jokin'  or 
foolin'  about  it,  and,  by  comparison,  our  war  with 
Spain  was  nothin'  at  all — or  only  a  sporting  thing  that 
did  n't  amount  to  the  crack  of  your  finger. 

"The  war  made  a  great  change  in  the  condition  of 
the  colored  people.  Way  back  yonder,  in  the  ol'  time, 
when  we  had  slavery,  if  a  white  man  found  a  nigger 
had  any  learnin'  he  did  n't  have  any  use  for  him  at  all. 
If  he  caught  you  with  a  book  in  your  hand  he'd  give 
you  a  thrashin'.  But  now  you  can't  go  and  get  any 
good  job  unless  you  have  some  learnin'.  You  take 
forty  years  ago,  and  we  all  had  to  dig  in  the  ground,  and 
work  was  done  with  only  the  roughest  sort  of  tools. 
You  did  n't  need  any  education  to  handle  them.  But 
that  ain't  so  with  all  the  sulky  ploughs  and  machines 
they  use  now;  and  yet  there  are  still  men  who  don't 
know  enough  to  be  dissatisfied  with  their  ignorance.  I 
could  show  you  a  man  in  this  town  who  works  with  a 
shovel  digging  sewers.  He  can't  read  or  write,  and 
shovelling  is  about  all  he's  good  for,  but  you  ask  him 
what  he  does  for  a  living,  and  he'll  tell  you  he's  working 
in  the  sewer  business,  and  he's  as  proud  of  it  as  the 
man  that's  bossing  him. 

"We  all  send  our  children  to  school,  but  I  don't 
think  they  have  much  liking  for  it.  When  the  school 
year  is  about  to  start  they'll  bust  their  brains  out  gettin' 
ready  to  go,  but  they  soon  get  tired  of  attending  day 


290    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

after  day.  It's  the  nature  of  some  of  'em  that  you  can't 
learn  'em  nothin'  nohow,  and  they  can't  get  to  recog- 
nize A  from  a  cornhouse  top.  They've  just  got  the  Old 
Harry  in  'em  and  go  off  fishin'  or  something  of  that 
sort  when  they  ought  to  be  in  school.  Very  likely 
others  in  the  same  family  will  be  perfectly  steady  and 
grow  up  smart  as  a  steel  trap.  I've  got  six  children, 
and  I  understand  'em.  When  they  make  believe 
they're  sick  and  want  to  do  this,  that,  and  the  other 
thing  instead  of  goin'  to  school  I  have  to  foller  'em 
up  pretty  close.  I  say  to  'em,  'You've  got  to  go  to 
school  and  behave  yourselves,  or  I'll  whip  you  and 
write  the  teacher  word  to  whip  you  again  when  you 
get  there."; 

Another  negro  with  whom  I  talked  was  a  dilapidated 
individual  who  was  loitering  at  the  back  door  of  his 
home  in  a  different  section  of  the  town.  His  trousers 
were  patched  and  ragged,  his  suspenders  were  broken 
and  pieced  out  with  string,  and  his  shoes  were  so  worn 
and  tattered  it  was  a  wonder  that  he  could  keep  them 
on  his  feet.  His  house  was  as  shabby  as  the  man  him- 
self, but  it  was  rather  pleasantly  situated,  facing  a  park 
where  the  trees  stood  as  thick  as  in  a  wood.  "This  is 
the  tightest  time  I  ever  knew,"  he  said  in  a  discour- 
aged tone.  "It  makes  a  man  feel  bad  when  he  can't 
get  money  to  pay  his  debts,  and  people  are  after  him  all 
the  time.  I  used  to  raise  most  of  the  meat  we  needed, 
but  they've  kind  o'  cut  out  hog-raisin'  in  the  center  of 
the  town.  They  told  me  to  quit  on  account  of  this 


A  farm  gatt 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  291 

hyar  little  park,  because  people  settin'  down  thar 
would  n't  like  the  smell. 

"Whether  I'm  earnin'  anything  or  not  the  man  that 
owns  this  house  wants  the  rent  every  month,  and  I 
have  to  give  him  half  of  what  I  raise  in  the  garden.  I 
been  renting  this  house  for  four  years  now,  and  in  all 
that  time  I  don't  believe  the  owner  has  spent  five  cents 
on  it.  I've  had  to  do  all  the  repairing  myself.  I  wish 
you  could  see  this  back  room  when  it  rains.  The  water 
po's  in  hyar  so  you  could  jus'  as  well  be  out  doors.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  I've  lost  a  child  every  year  since  I've 
lived  hyar.  They've  put  a  sewer  in  this  street,  and  I 
believe  that  creates  disease.  If  it  was  forty  or  fifty 
feet  underground  like  it  is  in  the  big  cities  it  might  be 
all  right,  but  hyar  it's  only  five  feet.  Still,  you've  got 
to  go  when  your  time  comes.  We  all  live  as  long  as  we 
was  intended  to  live. 

"Do  you  see  those  big  sheds  beyond  the  park? 
That's  where  the  people  from  the  country  put  their 
wagons  and  horses.  They  get  hyar  one  day  and  go  back 
the  next.  Among  the  sheds  is  one  building  where  they  eat 
and  sleep.  They  take  in  a  blanket  and  lie  on  the  floor. 
There's  a  cookstove  in  it  they  can  use.  They  bring 
their  own  eatin',  but  buy  feed  for  their  teams.  Some 
come  forty  or  fifty  miles  from  way  up  in  the  Blue  Ridge 
Mountains.  I've  seen  as  many  as  twenty-five  wagons 
in  the  sheds.  There's  always  lots  of  'em  Chuesday 
nights,  but  by  Friday  morning  all  the  fur  people  have 
done  wound  up  their  business  and  started  for  home." 


292    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

While  I  was  in  Fredericksburg  I  attended  a  Sunday 
morning  service  in  a  negro  church,  and  though  there 
were  certain  crudities  and  peculiarities  it  was  in  most 
ways  a  credit  to  the  intelligence  of  the  people  and  their 
preacher.  In  the  afternoon  I  mentioned  this  service  to 
an  elderly  white  man  with  whom  I  chatted  as  he  sat 
on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  house.  When  our  con- 
versation first  began  his  wife  had  opened  the  blinds  of 
a  window  and  looked  out  to  see  who  was  talking  to  him, 
and  presently  a  youthful  daughter  came  out  and  sat 
down  at  the  foot  of  an  adjacent  tree. 

"The  nigger  meetin's  ain't  what  they  used  to  be," 
the  man  commented.  "I've  seen  'em  jumpin'  up  and 
knockin'  over  the  benches  when  they  were  gettin' 
religion.  You  don't  find  much  of  that  now  except  out 
in  the  country.  They've  got  a  little  mo'  sense.  But 
time  was  when  we'd  pass  by  a  white  pra'r  meetin'  to 
go  to  the  colored  church  and  see  the  darkies  carry  on. 
Yo'd  kill  yo'self  laughin'  at  'em.  I've  got  so  blamed 
weak  laughin'  I  could  hardly  stand  up.  I  lived  for  a 
while  down  in  Caroline,  and  one  night  I  and  a  feller 
named  Gid  Ashley  went  to  a  darky  meetin'.  The 
preacher,  he  got  preachin',  and  the  people  begun 
hollerin',  and  some  of  'em  would  drop  down,  and  yo'd 
think  they  was  dead.  Gid  was  scared,  and  he  said, 
'Let's  get  out  of  here,'  but  I  made  him  stay.  The 
friends  of  those  that  had  fainted  would  rub  'em  and 
pat  'em  and  shake  'em,  and  as  soon  as  they  forgot  their 
religion  they'd  come  to. 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  293 

"  In  a  business  way  yo'll  find  that  as  a  rule  the  colored 
people  are  prosperin'.  A  country  darky  who  has  a 
little  farm  is  apt  to  buy  more  land,  a  small  amount  at 
a  time,  until  he  gets  a  good  big  farm;  or  at  least  he'll 
stir  around  and  take  care  of  what  he's  got.  Here  in 
town  most  of  the  darkies  own  the  houses  where  they 
live.  The  men  work,  and  the  women  work,  too.  Sup- 
posing a  woman  cooks  at  some  white  man's  house — 
she'll  get  pretty  good  wages,  and  they'll  give  her  the 
leavin's  from  the  table.  Bigbugs  don't  want  food 
brought  on  a  second  time.  So  the  cook  gets  it,  if  she 
has  a  family,  instead  of  its  bein'  dumped  out  into  the 
slop  barrel  for  the  hogs,  or  taken  down  to  the  river. 
She'll  carry  it  home  in  a  basket  every  night,  and  the 
family'll  never  have  to  buy  a  mouthful  to  eat.  That's 
how  a  good  many  darkies  get  up  in  the  world;  and 
I'll  say  this  for  'em — that  some  of  their  women  here 
dress  better'n  the  whites  and  are  a  good  sight  prettier. 
But  I  don't  like  their  mixin'  in  with  us,  and  wish  they 
was  somewhere  by  themselves. 

"I  was  raised  out  in  the  country,  and  my  great  ambi- 
tion, when  I  was  a  chunk  of  a  boy,  was  to  become  an 
expert  horseback  rider.  But  our  place  was  small,  and 
we  only  kept  one  little  mar'.  Father  hired  the  plough- 
ing done  in  the  spring,  and  kept  the  mar'  to  look  at. 
You  never  saw  no  one  so  choice  of  a  horse  as  he  was. 
Wunst  in  a  while  he  and  mother  drove  up  to  visit  her 
folks,  or  they  might  drive  to  church,  but  he  was  so 
careful  of  the  mar'  she  never  had  to  raise  a  trot — that 


294    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

would  be  too  fast — and  if  she  was  goin'  down  a  slant 
he  held  her  in  as  tight  as  yo'  please.  He  never  took 
her  out  for  fun,  and  in  cold  weather,  if  there  was  ice  or 
crusted  snow  that  might  cut  her  ankles,  he  would  n't 
even  drive  her  to  mill,  but  would  put  the  bag  up  on  his 
own  back  and  carry  it.  We  had  to  have  the  corn  ground 
to  make  our  corn  bread.  We  would  n't  eat  wheat 
bread  more  than  once  a  day  in. old  times,  and  we'd 
never  think  of  havin'  any  when  we  had  b'iled  victuals. 
We  used  to  have  ash  pones  common  befo'  the  war,  and 
if  they  are  baked  right  there  ain't  no  better  bread  made. 
Mother  would  get  the  corn  pone  ready,  scratch  a  hole 
in  the  fireplace  ashes,  and  brush  that  part  of  the  h'ath 
clean.  Then  she  put  the  pone  down  there  on  two  or 
three  big  cabbage  leaves,  covered  it  with  other  cabbage 
leaves,  and  drew  the  ashes  and  coals  out  over  it.  The 
pone  would  bake  as  brown  as  if  it  had  been  in  a  stove, 
and  if  yo'  ate  it  in  milk  it  was  first-rate.  I'd  like  it  yet 
if  we  had  a  fireplace  to  bake  it  in. 

"But  I  was  speakin'  about  father's  mar'.  He  kep' 
the  stable  door  locked.  Bless  your  soul!  he  thought 
she  was  too  good  for  me  or  anybody  else  to  ride  horse- 
back. But  after  a  while  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  ride 
whether  or  no.  So  one  day  when  father  was  away  I 
drew  out  the  staple  and  got  the  door  open.  I  wa'n't 
big  enough  to  reach  up  to  the  mar's  head,  and  I  had  to 
get  into  the  trough  to  put  on  the  bridle.  Then  I  climbed 
up  on  the  side  of  the  stall  and  got  on  her  back,  and, 
unbeknownst  to  mother,  went  out  and  rode  up  and 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  295 

down  the  pike.  But  father  came  home  sooner  than  I 
expected  and  caught  me  at  it  and  thrashed  me.  That 
did  n't  do  no  good.  I  kep'  on  takin'  rides,  and  so 
finally  he  sold  the  mar'." 

"He  was  mean  to  you,"  the  man's  daughter  com- 
mented. "I  don't  believe  he  went  to  heaven." 

"After  I  married,"  the  man  resumed,  "I  come  to  live 
here  in  Fredericksburg,  and  pretty  soon  the  war  begun. 
In  the  battle  that  was  fought  here  there  was  lots  o' 
destruction — Lord-a-massy!  chimbleys  knocked  off, 
roofs  broken  in,  and  some  houses  so  smashed  up  that 
afterward  they  tore  'em  to  pieces  and  used  'em  for 
firewood.  At  first  the  troops  fit  across  the  town  for 
a  while.  Then  our  force  fell  back  on  the  heights  and 
the  Yankees  follered  us.  But  there  we  had  the  advan- 
tage of  'em  pretty  smartly  and  soon  run  'em  back  into 
the  town.  They  were  often  rather  rough  to  the  people 
who  lived  here,  but  perhaps  that  was  partly  because 
the  Secesh  wa'n't  very  polite  to  'em.  They'd  come 
right  into  the  kitchen  huntin'  for  somethin'  to  eat,  and 
they'd  take  the  corn  bread  off  the  griddle  with  only  one 
side  done  and  eat  it  just  as  it  was.  My  shack  wa'n't 
bothered  much  by  'em.  Four  or  five  did  start  for  to  go 
down  cellar  where  I  had  a  good  bit  of  harness  and  grub 
and  tools  packed  away,  but  a  feller  in  the  Northern 
army  who  knew  me  come  along  just  as  they  was  pryin' 
open  the  cellar  door  to  begin  their  ransacking.  He 
reported  to  an  officer  and  got  a  guard  appointed  to  see 
that  no  harm  was  done  on  my  place.  A  good  many  of 


296    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

my  neighbors  had  run  off  and  left  their  houses,  and. 
they  lost  most  all  they  had,  but  I  reckon  the  citizens 
got  as  much  as  the  soldiers  did." 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  was  a  small,  low 
building  a  few  paces  from  the  rear  of  a  house.  It  had 
a  great  outside  chimney  at  one  end,  and  its  mossy 
shingles  and  weatherworn  walls  proclaimed  its  age. 
"That's  an  outdoor  kitchen,"  said  my  companion  in 
response  to  a  question  of  mine,  "and  it's  been  standin' 
there  at  least  a  hundred  years.  In  the  old  ancient  days 
all  the  well-to-do  families  had  'em.  The  poor  could  n't 
afford  such  a  luxury.  Everything  for  the  family  table 
was  cooked  in  it  both  winter  and  summer.  Perhaps 
you  don't  think  a  kitchen  outside  of  the  house  is  con- 
venient, but  the  goin'  back  and  forth  was  just  as  handy 
to  the  older  heads  as  takin'  a  drink  of  coffee.  Yo'd 
find  the  most  comfortable  little  room  you  ever  see  in 
there,  with  brick  laid  up  between  the  studding  to  make 
it  cool  in  summer  and  warm  in  winter.  They  use  a 
stove  now,  but  the  joists  and  floor  of  the  little  loft  above 
are  all  blackened  with  smoke  from  the  old  fireplace." 

The  man's  wife  had  come  to  the  door.  "It  looks  like 
we  was  goin'  to  have  a  storm,"  she  said.  "Well,  that's 
what  we  expect  when  the  weather  is  as  hot  as  it  is  now. 
Late  in  the  summer  we  have  a  storm  mighty  near  every 
evening,  and  if  the  whole  heft  of  it  don't  hit  us  we  at 
least  get  the  tail-end  of  it.  We  have  lots  of  hailstorms, 
too,  that  tear  up  trees  and  everything." 

As  I  strolled  back  to  my  hotel  the  clouds  gradually 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  297 

covered  the  sky  with  a  threatening  gloom.  Presently 
night  came,  and  I  could  see  the  lightning  blinking  in 
the  distance  and  hear  the  grumbling  of  thunder.  Then, 
after  a  prelude  of  gusty  wind,  the  rain  came  driving 
down,  and  the  people  who  were  walking  on  the  streets, 
or  sitting  on  porches  and  sidewalks  to  enjoy  the  cool  air, 
scudded  to  shelter. 

The  next  day  I  went  ten  miles  west  on  a  narrow 
gauge  road — "a  little  old  one-horse  affair" — to  Alrich's 
Crossing.  Here  was  a  board  shed  that  served  as  a 
station  shelter,  and  some  straggling  piles  of  sawed 
lumber.  Not  far  away  was  a  poor  little  house  with  a 
small  clearing  about  it,  and  the  rest  was  ragged  forest 
from  which  all  the  large  timber  had  been  removed. 
But  I  did  not  have  far  to  go  to  strike  a  main  highway 
that  was  bordered  by  occasional  farms  where  the  land 
had  been  long  cultivated  and  chastened  into  productive 
smoothness.  In  one  of  the  yards  was  a  colored  woman 
washing  clothes  in  some  tubs  set  in  the  shade  of  a  tree, 
and  I  inquired  of  her  the  way  to  the  Wilderness  Battle- 
field. 

"This  hyar  is  whar  the  battle  of  Chancellorsville  was 
fought,"  she  said,  "but  yo'  keep  right  on  up  this  pike 
road  till  yo'  come  to  a  li'l'  oP  log  cabin.  Then  yo'll  be 
up  in  the  big  woods,  and  thar  was  fightin'  all  aroun' 
thar." 

I  tramped  on  into  the  big  woods.  The  day  was 
warm,  but  a  light  breeze  was  stirring  and  served  to 
temper  the  heat  somewhat.  Cloudships  were  sailing 


298    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

across  the  blue  sky,  and  up  there  where  the  misty  fleet 
drifted  so  serenely  I  now  and  then  saw  a  buzzard  soar- 
ing on  tireless  wings.  Birds  were  warbling  in  the  trees, 
and  grasshoppers  thrilled  the  air  with  their  strident 
notes.  The  road  was  one  of  those  semi-barbaric  thor- 
oughfares of  red  clay  which  get  deeply  rutted  while 
watersoaked  in  winter  and  spring,  and  later  dry  to 
adamant.  Where  the  mud  had  been  of  the  bottomless 
variety  a  rude  sort  of  corduroy  had  been  put  in.  The 
bordering  woodland  had  been  devastated  by  the  lum- 
bermen, and  in  places  fire  had  nearly  completed  the 
wreck.  Evidently  the  cattle  were  allowed  to  browse 
in  its  unfenced  tangles  at  will,  and  I  often  saw  some  of 
them  among  the  trees  or  nibbling  along  the  shaded 
borders  of  the  roadway. 

Within  a  mile  of  Chancellorsville  is  a  monument  in 
the  woodland  beside  the  pike  marking  the  spot  where 
Stonewall  Jackson  was  fatally  wounded  by  his  own 
men.  The  woods  were  not  continuous,  for  every  little 
while  I  would  come  to  a  scattered  group  of  houses, 
mostly  of  logs,  and  these  simple,  unpretentious  old 
log  dwellings  made  the  finicky  new  frame  houses  seem 
ugly  by  contrast.  At  one  place  was  the  little,  barn- 
like  Wilderness  Church,  and  in  an  adjoining  field  a 
man  and  a  barefooted  boy  were  planting  corn.  The 
man  said  some  sharp  fighting  had  occurred  in  the  vi- 
cinity, and  that  they  often  found  bullets.  "I've  seen 
some  this  mornin',''  he  added,  "but  I  just  let  'em  lie 
where  they  was." 


The  Wilderness  Church 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  299 

Bullets  were  less  commonplace  to  the  boy,  and  he 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  showed  me  several  that  he 
had  found  within  the  last  hour  or  two. 

"This  fight  was  only  a  small  affair,"  the  man  said. 
"The  Yankees  were  down  along  a  little  branch  near 
the  church.  It  was  in  the  evening,  and  they'd  butchered 
quite  a  lot  of  beef  there  and  was  cookin'  it.  Jackson 
come  in  behind  and  surprised  'em.  I  guess  old  Jackson 
was  pretty  slick.  They  did  n't  know  he  was  anywhere 
around,  and  they'd  stacked  their  arms.  When  the 
Rebs  come  whoopin'  and  yellin'  the  Yankees  left  every- 
thing and  run.  But  the  Rebs  did  n't  pursue  'em.  They 
were  so  near  starved  that  they  stopped  right  there  and 
e't  up  the  meat  in  a  hurry.  An  old  lady  lives  in  the 
next  house  up  the  road.  She  can  tell  you  all  about  it, 
for  she  was  here  at  the  time." 

I  went  on,  and  at  the  next  house,  inquired  for  the 
old  lady  of  a  little  girl  who  was  sitting  in  the  yard  under 
a  big  cherry  tree.  To  my' surprise  a  voice  responded 
from  the  tree,  and  up  there  among  the  branches  I  saw 
a  sunbonneted  woman  picking  cherries.  "You're 
askin'  for  that  little  girl's  grandmaw,"  she  said,  and 
directed  me  to  the  house. 

The  walls  of  the  house  were  of  logs  which  had  been 
hidden  from  view  by  weatherboards.  When  I  went  in 
I  found  the  floors  very  uneven  and  sagging,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  a  bed  or  two  in  nearly  every  room,  but 
all  the  appointments  of  the  dwelling  were  very  clean 
and  tidy.  In  one  room  was  a  fireplace,  still  used  in  cold 


300    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

weather.  As  I  saw  it,  however,  it  had  been  put  in 
order  for  the  summer.  The  andirons  had  been  carried 
out  to  the  shed  and  the  stones  of  which  it  was  made  had 
been  given  a  coat  of  whitewash.  Apparently  there  had 
been  a  sort  of  whitewash  carnival  recently  on  the  place. 
They  had  gone  over  the  room-walls  with  it,  and  the 
outside  walls,  and  the  barns,  the  sheds,  the  fences,  and 
even  a  row  of  stones  beside  the  path  that  led  from  the 
house  to  the  highway. 

The  old  lady  and  I  were  soon  discussing  the  war. 
"From  the  time  it  began,"  she  said,  "there  were  soldiers 
goin'  up  and  down  the  road  all  the  time,  and  by  and  by 
a  Union  army  come  here,  and  General  Devens  made  this 
house  his  headquarters.  Well,  one  afternoon,  a  deer 
ran  out  of  the  forest  and  jumped  right  over  a  soldier 
and  ran  on  across  the  field.  Then  there  was  a  great 
commotion  and  yellin',  and  the  soldiers  tried  to  kill 
the  deer,  but  I  don't  think  they  got  it.  'T would  n't 
have  been  much  good  if  they  had  for  'twas  May,  and 
the  animal  would  have  been  right  lean,  I  reckon.  Deers 
were  plenty  then,  but  it  seemed  strange  this  one  should 
come  runnin'  out  of  the  forest  the  way  it  did.  I  was 
always  anxious  for  fear  something  would  happen  to  my 
husban',  who  was  a  guide  for  Jackson,  and  when  I 
heard  the  shouting  and  firing  I  did  n't  know  but  they'd 
caught  him.  It  scared  me  most  to  death,  and  I  hurried 
to  the  do'  and  just  then  a  spent  ball  struck  the  facin' 
of  the  do'  and  fell  at  my  feet.  I've  thought  since  that 
ought  to  entitle  me  to  a  pension. 


Beside  the  Rappahannock  301 

"Some  of  the  Yankees  got  up  in  the  tall  locust  trees 
that  grew  in  the  yard  spyin'  the  country  over  in  the 
direction  the  deer  had  come  from,  and  General  Devens 
said  there  was  goin'  to  be  fightin'.  He  was  very  kind 
and  had  one  of  his  men  take  me  and  the  children  to  a 
neighbor's  house  where  there  was  a  cellar  we  could  go 
into.  We  stayed  there  over  night  and  till  near  the  end 
of  the  next  clay  without  anything  happening  and  I 
begun  to  think  of  goin'  home.  'Bout  six  o'clock  in  the 
evenin'  we  was  havin'  supper,  and  everythin'  was  so 
peaceful,  when  they  commenced  firm'  up  in  the  woods. 
A  little  Northern  boy — a  drummer — was  in  the  kitchen, 
and  he  jumped  up  trembling.  He  knew  there  was  goin' 
to  be  trouble,  and  he  said,  'What  would  I  give  to  be  at 
home ! ' 

"I  couldn't  help  but  wish  he  was  there  with  his 
mother,  he  was  so  small.  He  grabbed  up  his  drum  and 
ran  out.  But  he  had  n't  got  across  the  yard  before  I 
thought  he  was  killed.  A  piece  of  shell  broke  his  drum 
all  to  pieces  and  stunned  him.  By  then  thousands  of 
bullets  were  flyin',  and  we  all  went  to  the  cellar.  When 
the  fight  was  over,  and  we  come  out,  the  drummer  boy 
was  gone.  He  wasn't  killed,  and  after  the  war  he  got 
home  and  married  and  had  a  large  family,  so  I  was  told. 

"It  was  lucky  that  I  was  at  a  neighbor's  where  there 
was  a  cellar,  for  the  house  here  was  right  in  the  midst  of 
the  fight  and  was  hit  by  a  good  many  bullets.  You  can 
see  the  holes  in  the  clapboards  yet.  The  war  ended 
finally,  but  the  place  was  stripped  of  nearly  everythin', 


302    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

and  I  hope  and  pray  there'll  never  be  another  raiding 
through  here." 

NOTES. — Fredericksburg  is  54  miles,  from  Washington,  half  way 
to  Richmond.  It  is  interesting  to  the  visitor  as  a  quaint  old  South- 
ern city,  and  still  more  so  as  the  scene  of  a  fiercely-fought  battle  in 
December,  1862.  Back  of  the  town  is  a  huge  national  cemetery  in 
which  are  15,00x3  graves,  and  near  by  is  a  large  Confederate 
cemetery. 

Washington  spent  his  boyhood  near  Fredericksburg,  where  his 
father  was  agent  for  some  iron  works.  The  family  dwelling  was  a 
four-room  house  with  outside  chimneys,  just  below  the  town  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river.  It  is  said  that  Washington  distinguished 
himself  as  a  boy  by  throwing  a  piece  of  slate  across  to  the  opposite 
bank.  Here  his  mother  died  in  1789. 

The  battle  of  Chancellorsville  was  fought  in  May,  1863,  u  miles 
to  the  west,  and  a  few  miles  farther  away  in  that  direction  occurred 
the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness  just  a  year  later.  The  Wilderness 
battlefield  can  only  be  reached  with  some  difficulty. 


XIV 

JUNE    IN    THE    SHENANDOAH    VALLEY 

MOST  of  my  time  in  the  valley  was  spent  at 
Luray,  not  because  that  particular  vicinity  is 
superlatively  attractive,  but  because  I  wanted 
to  see  the  world-famed  Luray  Caverns.  The  town  is  in 
a  region  of  big,  sweeping  hills,  and  its  chief  street  climbs 
an  especially  steep  slope.  At  a  little  remove,  to  east 
and  west,  are  long  ranges  of  lofty  mountains,  some 
bulwark-like  and  level-topped,  but  the  majority  running 
up  into  rounded  or  sharp-pointed  peaks.  They  are 
tree-clad  clear  to  the  summits,  and  as  I  saw  them  in  the 
warm,  hazy  days  of  early  summer  they  were  always 
dreamily  blue  and  serene.  .  Indeed,  the  region  had  an 
almost  Swiss-like  charm  in  its  combination  of  pastoral 
lowlands  and  ethereal  heights. 

The  caverns  are  a  mile  east  of  the  town  beneath  the 
summit  of  the  highest  hill  in  the  neighborhood.  They 
are  remarkable  for  their  size,  but  still  more  so  for  the 
wealth  of  the  calcite  formations  they  contain.  In  the 
latter  respect  they  are  unexcelled.  The  circuitous 
course  over  which  visitors  are  taken  is  a  mile  and  a  half 
long.  As  soon  as  you  go  down  the  entrance  stairway 
into  the  depths,  no  matter  whether  there  is  summer 
heat  outside  or  the  frosty  keenness  of  winter,  you  are 


304    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

in  a  cool,  pure  atmosphere  that  remains  always  at 
about  fifty-four  degrees.  Stalactite  and  stalagmite 
ornamentations  abound  everywhere  in  the  labyrinthine 
passages  and  chambers,  and  a  system  of  electric  lighting 
makes  it  possible  to  see  this  to  admirable  advantage. 
It  is  a  weird  place — so  silent  and  so  fantastically  decora- 
tive— full  of  impenetrable  shadows,  chasms  here, 
gloomy  rifts  there,  and  now  and  then  a  pool  of  water 
that  seems  like  liquid  air  it  is  so  clear.  You  go  on 
with  resonant  footsteps,  your  guide's  voice  and  your 
own  echoing  in  the  stillness.  You  gaze  on  the  pend- 
ants from  the  roof  and  their  reverses  rising  from  the 
floor,  the  fluted  columns  and  draperies,  and  the  stony 
cascades  with  their  marvellous  variations  in  color, 
and  you  feel  that  you  are  in  the  royal  chambers  of 
the  monarchs  of  the  underworld.  The  formations 
often  strikingly  resemble  animals,  vegetables,  and 
other  objects  of  the  realm  above  ground,  and  the 
guide  calls  them  all  faithfully  to  your  attention  un- 
til you  get  the  impression  that  you  are  in  a  petrified 
museum. 

Somewhere  in  the  journey  the  guide  allows  you  to 
learn  what  absolute  darkness  is  like  by  turning  off  the 
lights.  The  gloom  was  not  simply  black — it  was  blank, 
and  I  stood  in  an  illimitable  void  so  far  as  the  sense  of 
sight  was  concerned. 

"There  was  one  time,"  the  guide  said,  "that  I  took 
a  visitor  through  here,  who  was  a  great  large  Dutch- 
man— about  the  type  of  man  you  see  driving  around  on 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  305 

a  brewery  wagon,  and  when  we  had  made  the  rounds 
he  asked,  'Was  it  made,  or  did  it  come  so?' 

"Another  visitor  would  n't  go  in  the  cave  at  night 
because  he  said  he'd  rather  see  it  by  daylight." 

Just  then  the  guide  halted  and  threw  the  light  of  the 
oil  torch  that  he  carried  down  into  a  depression  beside 
the  path.  "Look,"  he  said,  "and  you'll  see  the  bones 
of  an  Indian  boy  almost  imbedded  from  sight  in  the 
lime.  They  must  have  been  there  for  at  least  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years.  Thirty-five  feet  above  us 
another  passage  opens  into  the  one  we  are  following. 
No  doubt  the  boy  was  groping  along  that  passage,  and 
when  he  stepped  off  the  edge  of  this  wall  up  there  he 
fell  to  his  death." 

One  of  the  chambers  to  which  a  sentimental  interest 
attaches  is  the  ballroom.  "This  is  where  we  have 
weddings,"  the  guide  explained.  "There've  been 
seventeen  of  'em.  It's  just  .a  freak  idea,  and  started 
with  the  wedding  of  a  girl  who  wanted  the  ceremony  in 
the  cave  because  she'd  promised  her  mother  she 
would  n't  marry  any  man  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

The  discovery  of  the  caverns  dates  back  only  to 
1878,  and  the  story  of  it  as  commonly  related  in  the 
town  runs  about  like  this: 

"On  the  far  side  of  the  hill  east  of  the  village  was  a 
cave  the  existence  of  which  was  known  from  pioneer 
times.  The  Ruffner  family  were  the  first  settlers  of 
the  valley,  and  one  day  a  member  of  this  family  went 
out  hunting  and  failed  to  return.  Searchers  scoured 


306    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

the  region  for  nearly  a  week  and  then  found  the  missing 
man's  gun  and  powderhorn  at  the  mouth  of  this  cave, 
and  rescued  from  the  cave  itself  the  almost  famished 
hunter. 

"The  years  passed,  and  there  at  length  drifted  to 
Luray  a  wandering  school-teacher  and  photographer 
named  Stebbins.  His  photograph  outfit  was  in  a  wagon 
to  which  a  pair  of  horses  could  be  hitched  and  draw  it 
from  town  to  town.  He  would  maybe  stay  two  or  three 
months  in  a  place — as  long  as  he  could  do  well — estab- 
lished on  some  vacant  lot.  Stebbins  knew  something 
of  geology,  and  he  thought  there  was  likely  to  be 
caverns  of  considerable  extent  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
old  Ruffner  Cave.  This  impression  he  confided  to 
Andrew  Campbell,  a  native  of  the  town  who  had  been 
all  over  the  country  hunting  and  fishing,  and  was  a 
keen  and  capable  woodsman,  but  who  got  along  from 
day  to  day  with  very  little  provision  for  the  future. 
He  accumulated  an  interestering  fund  of  information, 
but  while  he  was  out  roaming  around  perhaps  his  wife 
was  at  home  wondering  what  the  family  would  have 
for  dinner. 

"The  upshot  of  the  consultation  with  Stebbins  was 
that  Campbell  and  his  brother  Williams  and  the  school- 
master started  out  cave-hunting.  Sink  holes  draining 
into  underground  cavities  were  common  in  the  region, 
and  the  three  men  ranged  about  examining  them  for 
possible  openings.  At  last,  one  August  day,  they 
turned  their  attention  to  a  sink  hole  in  a  wheat  field 


The  Shenandoah  River 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  307 

on  the  north  slope  of  Cave  Hill.  It  was  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  across  and  twelve  deep,  and  was  over- 
grown with  briars  and  bushes.  When  a  man  had  a 
sink  hole  like  that  in  cultivated  land  he  woulji  use  it 
to  get  shut  of  a  lot  of  stumps  and  stones.  It  served  as 
a  kind  of  dump,  and  a  good  deal  of  refuse  had  been 
thrown  into  this  one  in  the  wheatfield.  Formerly  it  had 
been  much  deeper.  The  men  were  poking  around  in  it 
when  one  of  them  exclaimed,  'Why,  here's  cold  air!' 
"The  air  was  coming  out  of  a  hole  about  four  inches 
in  diameter,  and  the  men  worked  with  a  will  to  clear 
out  the  rubbish.  As  they  went  deeper  they  used  a 
bucket  attached  to  a  rope  to  pull  up  the  dirt  and  stones. 
In  five  hours'  time  they  had  made  an  aperture  large 
enough  for  a  man  to  crawl  through.  This  gave  access 
to  a  black  abyss  below,  and  Andrew  Campbell,  clinging 
to  the  rope,  descended  till  he  found  a  firm  foothold. 
Then  he  let  go  of  the  rope;  lit  a  candle,  and  looked 
about  him  on  the  unexpected  splendors  of  the  chamber 
to  which  he  had  gained  entrance.  He  left  his  com- 
panions so  long  to  their  conjectures  that  they  became 
uneasy  at  his  absence,  and  his  brother  presently  de- 
scended in  search  of  him.  Together  the  two  went  on 
for  several  rods  to  where  they  were  stopped  by  water — 
water  so  cle'r  you'd  hardly  realize  it  was  there.  This 
has  since  been  called  Chaplin's  Lake,  because  a  fellow 
of  that  name  stepped  into  it  up  to  his  knees.  The 
Campbell  brothers  agreed  to  keep  quiet  about  their 
discovery  and  when  they  came  up  to  the  surface  they 


308    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

told  Stebbins  and  some  loafers  who'd  gathered  around 
to  see  what  was  doing,  'Oh,  there's  nothing  in  it!' 

"But  when  the  three  partners  in  the  exploring  enter- 
prise were  by  themselves  the  facts  were  revealed  to 
Stebbins,  and  later  they  returned  to  make  a  more  ex- 
tended exploration  of  the  caverns.  The  land  under 
which  the  caverns  lay  was  a  bankrupt  property  soon 
to  be  disposed  of  at  a  sheriff's  sale,  but  the  three  ne'er- 
do-wells  who  knew  the  secret  of  the  cave  had  no  money. 
Probably  not  a  man  among  'em  could  raise  twenty- 
five  dollars.  So  they  divulged  their  discovery  to  another 
man  who  had  means,  and  persuaded  him  to  back  them. 
Such  land  was  then  worth  eight  or  ten  dollars  an  acre, 
and  they  bid  it  in  for  about  twice  that  to  the  great 
surprise  of  the  townsfolk.  Their  friends  naturally 
guyed  them  a  good  deal  over  their  bargain,  and  they 
could  not  stand  the  ridicule  and  prematurely  revealed 
their  reason  for  buying.  That  roused  the  heirs  of  the 
bankrupt  property  to  start  a  lawsuit,  and  two  years 
later  the  property  was  restored  to  them.  It  was  then 
disposed  of  a  second  time,  but  instead  of  bringing 
about  three  hundred  dollars,  as  it  did  before,  the 
seventeen  acres  this  time  sold  for  forty  thousand. 

"Meanwhile  the  three  discoverers  had  opened  up 
the  caverns  and  exploited  them  with  some  success,  and 
enjoyed  the  only  period  of  prosperity  in  their  lives.  A 
spirit  of  adventure  had  led  to  the  finding  of  the  caverns, 
and  the  management  of  them  afterward  by  Stebbins 
and  his  comrades  was  simply  childish.  If  a  man  came 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  309 

to  see  the  caverns,  as  like  as  not  Bill  Campbell,  who 
was  supposed  to  act  as  guide,  would  be  lying  on  a 
bench  feeling  too  lazy  to  make  the  trip,  and  he'd  put 
the  man  off.  It  seems  a  pity  that  the  discoverers  should 
not  have  had  larger  returns,  but  doubtless  the  public 
fared  better  for  the  shift  to  another  management." 

The  geologist  of  the  trio  "drifted  around  from  pillar 
to  post,"  and  died  in  a  neighboring  town  a  public 
charge.  Andrew  Campbell  is  still  a  resident  of  Luray, 
and  I  met  him.  He  was  evidently  confident  that  he 
knew  the  caverns  much  more  thoroughly  than  those 
now  in  charge.  "They'll  tell  you  there's  practically 
no  life  in  the  cavern,"  he  said,  "but  I've  seen  tracks 
of  coons,  'possums  and  bears  in  there — thousands  of 
'em;  and  I've  seen  places  where  animals  have  stayed, 
most  likely  to  get  away  from  the  cold  above  ground  in 
winter.  Rats  and  mice  live  in  there.  I've  set  traps 
for  'em,  but  they  were  too  slick  for  me.  A  very  little 
fly,  and  a  spider,  both  almost  microscopic,  are  found 
in  the  caverns,  and  I've  come  across  bats  hangin'  upside 
down.  Where  the  animals  come  in,  or  where  the  air 
comes  in,  no  one  can  tell,  but  it's  plain  that  the  en- 
trance we  found  ain't  the  only  one." 

Another  subject  which  loomed  large  in  Mr.  Camp- 
bell's experience  was  the  Civil  War.  "I  was  a  Union 
man  who  fought  on  the  Southern  side,"  he  said.  "Just 
before  Lincoln  was  elected  I  raised  a  flag  in  this  town 
to  show  my  sentiments.  On  the  cloth  was  painted  an 
American  eagle  as  big  as  a  turkey,  and  he  had  a  scroll 


310    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

in  his  mouth  that  bore  the  motto,  'The  Union  must  be 
preserved.'  I  hoisted  the  flag  on  a  spliced  hickory  pole 
that  was  one  hundred  and  fifteen  feet  high;  but  after 
the  state  seceded  the  pole  had  to  be  cut  down. 

"Then  they  conscripted  me,  and  I  volunteered  to 
go  as  a  musician.  They  kept  me  three  years.  At  first 
I  played  the  fife,  and  later  a  tenor  drum.  I  was  with 
Stonewall  Jackson.  Yes,  old  Jackson  heard  me  beat 
the  drum  many  a  time.  We  made  some  great  marches. 
He  did  n't  let  much  grass  grow  under  his  feet  while  he 
was  on  the  move;  but  I  did  n't  like  him.  He  was  a 
regular  tyrant,  and  he  did  n't  care  how  many  of  his 
men  were  killed  if  he  only  carried  his  point.  That's 
the  kind  of  a  hairpin  he  was.  Generally  the  discipline 
in  the  Southern  army  was  not  very  strict,  and  if  a  man 
thought  he  ought  to  go  home  for  a  while  he  went.  But 
he  wa'n't  a  deserter,  because  by  and  by  he'd  come  back. 
That  way  of  doing  things  did  n't  suit  Jackson,  though, 
and  if  a  man  from  his  command  was  caught  goin'  off 
home  he'd  order  him  shot.  I've  beat  more'n  one  man's 
dead  march  on  the  way  to  the  spot  where  they  was 
goin'  to  seat  him  on  his  coffin  and  shoot  him. 

"People  don't  realize  what  war  is.  Some  of  'em 
ask  me  about  my  drummin'  along  in  front  of  the  troops 
and  leadin'  'em  into  battle.  But  that  would  be  a 
ridiculous  thing  would  n't  it?  Each  side  wants  to  get 
in  the  first  lick,  and  they  try  to  steal  up  and  take  the 
other  by  surprise.  When  there's  likely  to  be  fighting, 
the  troops  make  a  little  noise  as  possible,  and  if  it's  a 


A  jerry 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  311 

dusty  time  they  march  in  the  hollow  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  as  they  approach  the  enemy,  lest  the  dust  should 
be  seen  and  betray  them.  No  I  did  n't  furnish  music 
durin'  the  fightin'.  I  helped  in  the  field  hospital." 

The  region  that  environs  Luray  is  decidedly  at- 
tractive to  a  rambler,  and  I  made  several  interesting 
excursions  into  the  outlying  districts.  One  day  I  came 
to  a  grist  mill,  which  I  was  informed  was  "tolerable 
old,"  but  it  had  been  built  since  the  war  to  replace  one 
that  had  been  burned  by  Yankee  raiders.  It  was 
primitive  in  itself  and  in  its  surroundings.  A  big  out- 
side overshot  wheel  furnished  power,  and  near  by  was 
a  ford  where  the  creek  in  the  hollow  encountered  the 
highway.  Vehicles  and  equestrians  went  right  through 
the  stream  at  the  ford,  but  foot-travellers  crossed  on  a 
slender  bridge  high  up  above  the  water  with  steps  giv- 
ing access  to  it  from  either  side.  In  the  shade  of  some 
trees  at  the  door  of  the  mill  several  teams  were  hitched, 
and  there  I  came  across  a  burly  farmer  lounging  on  his 
wagon  seat,  waiting  for  his  grist.  We  were  soon  dis- 
cussing the  characteristics  of  the  countryside,  and  he 
said:  "I  reckon  harvesting  will  be  in  full  blast  in  about 
two  weeks.  Thar's  a  heap  of  wheat  raised  in  this 
country  hyar.  Some  of  these  fellers  will  raise  thirty- 
five  acres  or  more,  but  others  raise  as  low  down  as  half 
an  acre.  A  man  with  just  a  little  patch  will  cut  it  with 
a  cradle,  but  most  use  a  binder. 

"Round  hyar  now  the  crops  are  just  as  fine  as  a  man 
would  want  to  look  at,  but  last  summer  we  had  an 


312    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

awful  drought.  Usually  we  raise  a  little  bit  of  corn  to 
sell,  but  not  any  was  shipped  away  last  year.  It  was 
the  poorest  corn  year  I  ever  remember — indeed,  it  was. 
Some  of  our  best  farmers  had  to  buy  corn. 

"The  people  through  this  section  are  right  smartly 
mixed  up,  but  they  used  to  be  all  German  and  Dutch. 
You'll  find  those  who  can  talk  Dutch  even  yet.  There's 
a  good  many  poor  people  with  only  an  acre  or  two  of 
land.  They  have  to  work  out  for  a  living.  But  thar 
ain't  any  great  difference  between  the  comforts  enjoyed 
by  the  man  who  hires  and  the  man  who  is  hired.  They 
eat  'bout  the  same  food  and  wear  'bout  the  same  sort 
of  clothes.  In  some  cases  the  hired  man  don't  work  so 
hard  as  the  feller  he's  workin'  for  does  gettin'  him  to  do 
things.  Some  hands  takes  interest  in  their  work  and 
do  as  much  alone  as  when  the  farmer  is  with  'em.  Others 
try  to  beat  all  they  can.  They  fool  around  and  want 
the  sun  to  go  down  as  soon  as  possible.  On  the  farms 
near  town  they  work  on  the  ten  hour  system,  but  out 
in  the  country  it's  from  sunup  to  sundown,  and  in  busy 
times  they  work  as  long  as  they  can  see.  The  farmer 
boards  his  hands,  and  pays  'em  fifty  cents  a  day  as  a 
general  thing,  but  during  haymaking,  harvest,  and 
thrashing  you  have  to  pay  a  dollar  a  day. 

"I've  got  two  men  a-workin'  for  me.  They  live  half 
a  mile  away  and  come  for  breakfast  about  sunup.  I 
get  up  at  daylight.  That's  half  after  four  now.  If  I 
want  to  make  an  early  start  I  get  up  at  four;  and  even 
in  winter  I'm  hardly  ever  up  later  than  five.  But  every 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  313 

farmer  works  accordin'  to  his  own  notion,  to  suit  him- 
self, and  some  are  mo'  rushing  than  others.  They  can 
keep  body  and  soul  together  if  they  work  hard.  Yes, 
thar's  opportunity  to  make  dollars  now  whar  thar  was 
to  make  cents  when  I  was  a  boy.  It's  a  man's  own 
fault  if  he  suffers.  Mostly  the  farmers  are  a  pretty 
industrious  people,  always  a-goin'.  But  thar's  excep- 
tions. Some  are  almost  too  lazy  to  move. 

"The  first  thing  in  the  morning  the  men  go  to  the 
field  and  bring  the  horses  in,  give  'em  a  little  grain, 
curry  'em,  and  gear  'em  up,  and  we  give  the  hogs  some 
corn  and  slop,  and  perhaps  we  grease  a  wagon.  We 
do  that  while  the  women  folks  get  breakfast.  When 
we've  eaten,  we  put  the  bridles  on  the  horses  and  go  to 
work,  but  we  don't  work  hard  and  steady  all  the  day. 
The  horses  get  tired,  and  we  stop  every  couple  of  hours 
or  so  to  blow  'em — that  is,  we  let  'em  stand  and  rest; 
or  perhaps  we'll  stop  on  our  own  account  and  go  and 
get  some  water  to  drink.  But  under  the  ten  hour 
system  the  workers  keep  movin'  along  and  ain't  sup- 
posed to  sit  down  to  rest  at  all. 

"I  unhook  at  half  after  eleven,  and  if  thar's  a  right 
smart  distance  to  go  it  may  be  half  after  one  when  I 
get  back.  'Bout  the  time  the  sun  is  goin'  behind  the 
mountain  I  quit,  take  the  horses  home,  and  turn  'em 
into  the  field,  but  in  winter  they  stay  in  the  barn  and 
I  give  'em  hay  and  bed  'em. 

"After  supper  a  man  will  go  to  the  sto'  if  thar's  a 
sto'  anywhere  near.  I  loaf  at  the  one  near  my  place  a 


314    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

good  bit.  We  talk  about  the  weather  and  about  our 
wheat  and  grass  and  corn,  and  if  thar's  any  gossip  in 
the  country  we  talk  about  that.  Sometimes  we  talk  a 
little  politics.  I  advocate  the  men  I  think  the  most  of, 
and  others  advocate  the  men  they  think  the  most  of, 
but  politics  ain't  run  right  high  for  ten  or  twelve  years. 

"Sometimes  we  take  a  day  off  and  go  on  an  excur- 
sion, or  a  circus  may  come  through  hyar,  and  we  go  to 
that.  A  good  many  of  the  boys  shoots  marbles  or 
plays  ball,  and  on  Sunday,  these  late  years,  the  ma- 
jority of  the  youngsters  goes  courtin'.  They  start  in 
courtin'  at  an  earlier  age  than  they  used  to.  Nearly 
every  young  feller  has  a  buggy  that  he'll  be  sportin' 
around  in  every  pleasant  Sunday.  He'll  drive  to  church 
.if  thar's  preaching  somewhar  not  too  far  away,  and 
after  the  service  he'll  take  a  little  ride  with  his  girl. 
In  the  evening  the  youngsters  will  gather  in  one  of  the 
homes  to  talk  and  laugh  and  carry  on.  When  the 
gathering  breaks  up  a  feller  that  has  a  girl  is  likely  to 
sit  up  with  her  till  midnight,  and  if  the  case  is  very 
serious  he'll  be  mighty  apt  to  stay  longer. 

"We  have  plenty  of  different  churches.  Thar's  New 
School  Baptist,  and  Old  School,  and  Methodists,  and 
Dunkards,  and  the  Campbellites  who  call  themselves 
Christians  or  Disciples,  and  the  Seventh  Day  Ad- 
ventists,  and  the  Faith  Healers  who  are  right  strong 
in  places.  A  man  ought  to  be  able  to  choose  something 
to  suit  him  among  them  all.  Thar's  very  few  infidels 
but  now  and  then  you'll  strike  a  man  who  talks  that-a- 


The  great  chimney 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  315 

way.  He's  as  likely  to  go  to  church  as  the  rest  of  us, 
though  I  s'pose  it's  out  of  curiosity  and  to  get  some- 
thing to  argue  about.  In  our  country  churches  we 
generally  have  preaching  once  a  month.  Each  preacher 
has  several  churches  in  his  charge  and  takes  'em  in 
turn.  Most  of  us  goes  quite  regular,  and  on  Monday 
when  a  couple  of  fellers  get  together  you'll  hear  one  of 
'em  say,  'Well,  what'd  you  think  of  the  sermon  yester- 
day?' and  perhaps  the  other'll  say  he  don't  believe  that 
way,  and  they'll  have  considerable  of  a  discussion." 

Just  then  the  miller  came  to  the  door  and  announced 
that  the  grist  of  my  farm  friend  was  ready.  So  the 
farmer  loaded  his  wagon  and  drove  away,  and  I  re- 
turned to  the  town.  As  I  was  loitering  through  one 
of  its  outlying  streets  I  stopped  to  speak  with  a  young 
man  who  was  sitting  on  the  shady  side  of  his  house  in 
the  narrow  front  yard.  I  commented  on  the  pleasant 
farming  country  I  had  been  seeing.  "Yes,"  he  re- 
sponded, "the  farmers  are  prosperous  and  they  live 
good.  They  raise  their  own  fowls,  and  if  they  feel  like 
havin'  one  they  know  where  to  get  it.  They  grow  their 
own  fruit,  and  they're  sure  to  have  a  good  bunch  of 
cows,  so  they  always  can  have  nice  milk  and  butter  and 
cottage  cheese,  and  the  like  of  that.  I  was  raised  on  a 
farm,  and  it  kind  o'  goes  tough  to  live  in  town.  But 
we're  not  so  badly  off  as  we  might  be.  D'you  see  those 
big  earthenware  jars  hangin'  in  the  sun  on  the  fence 
pickets?  Those  are  preserve  jars,  and  we're  gettin' 
ready  to  fill  'em,  and  they're  hangin'  out  there  so  if 


316    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

there's  any  germ  about  'em  the  hot  sun'll  kill  it.  You 
take  the  people  in  this  country,  they  don't  buy  pre- 
serves. No,  they  get  the  stuff  out  and  put  it  up  them- 
selves. They  don't  think  they  live  if  they  don't  put  up 
their  own  fruit.  In  our  family  there's  just  me  and  my 
wife  and  two  children,  but  we  put  down  twenty-five 
jars  like  those.  We  generally  make  eight  or  ten  gallons 
of  apple  butter;  and  we  mus'  have  at  least  a  couple  of 
each  of  all  kinds  of  berries.  The  season  is  just  on  now, 
and  we'll  soon  be  putting  down  our  strawberries  and 
cherries  and  currants. 

"When  we  make  apple  butter  all  the  neighbors  come 
in  to  help  us  peel  the  apples.  They  make  a  frolic  of  it, 
and  are  here  through  the  afternoon  and  on  into  the 
night  till  ten  o'clock.  We  do  the  peeling  and  coring 
with  a  machine,  and  finish  by  hand.  It  takes  quite  a 
number  of  bushels;  and  we  plan  to  make  enough  of 
the  apple  butter  so  we  can  send  messes  around  to  the 
folks  who  came  in  and  helped.  That's  like  when  people 
butcher  in  the  country — they  do  it  at  different  times, 
and  send  meat  to  each  other.  In  that  way  they  have 
fresh  meat  all  the  fall." 

The  next  day  I  made  an  excursion  that  took  me 
through  the  negro  quarter  of  the  town,  and  among  its 
various  phases  of  picturesqueness  I  recall  a  sign  ex- 
tending across  the  sidewalk  which  read 

GEN.  ULYSSES  SIMPSON  GRANT  FRY 
RESTAURANT 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  317 

Another  local  sign  which  I  found  quite  fascinating 
was  this: 

CONCREATE 

BLOCKS  FOR 
SALE  ALKIND 

I  went  on  over  the  hills  and  down  to  where  the  limpid 
Shenandoah  flows  through  the  depths  of  the  vale.  The 
region  had  become  increasingly  wild,  and  the  houses 
few  and  far  between.  The  final  dwelling  on  the  road 
to  the  river  was  a  big,  neglected  old  mansion  that  was 
little  more  than  a  gaunt  timber  skeleton.  Most  of  the 
roof  was  gone,  and  the  building  was  plainly  a  rotten 
wreck  not  worth  repairing.  Yet  a  colored  family  that 
included  numerous  children  lived  in  it.  A  man  I  met 
on  the  highway  said  in  explanation:  "Last  spring  we 
had  a  right  hard  wind  hyar  that  taken  off  part  of  the 
house,  and  dog-goned  if  I  don't  believe  that  the  darky 
who's  rentin'  the  place  would  rather  get  wet  than  work 
a  little  mendin'  the  roof." 

The  meandering  road  at  last  brought  me  to  a  ferry, 
and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  was  a  rude,  flat- 
bottomed  scow,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  a  ferryman. 
While  I  was  considering  the  possibility  of  getting  across 
a  buggy  arrived  from  the  direction  I  had  come,  and  a 
man  got  out  and  remarked:  "When  the  boat  is  on  that 
side  a  skift  is  generally  left  on  this  side  so  a  man  who 
wants  to  cross  with  a  team  can  go  over  and  get  it.  The 


318    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

ferry  is  free,  but  you  have  to  manage  gettin'  back  and 
forth  yourself.  Sometimes  the  water  floods  the  bottoms 
and  we  can't  cross  at  all.  One  feller,  who  wa'n't  as 
keerful  as  he  ought  to  'a'  been,  tried  it  when  the  water 
was  a  little  too  high,  and  the  rope  broke — the  rope 
that  goes  from  the  boat  to  the  cable  that  you  see  up 
thar  in  the  air  swung  across  the  stream.  He  drifted 
down  mighty  near  half  a  mile  befo'  he  got  to  shore.  It 
skeered  him  some.  I  live  right  over  thar  not  far  from  the 
landing.  I'll  see  if  I  can  make  any  of  the  folks  hear  me." 

He  called  again  and  again  with  a  clear,  high-voiced 
whoop,  and  by  and  by  there  was  an  answering  call, 
and  a  boy  came  down  to  the  boat  and  poled  it  over  to 
us.  On  the  other  side  were  a  few  farms  scattered  along 
the  base  of  a  mountain  range  that  rose  in  a  steep  and 
lofty  wooded  height  close  behind,  and  there  were  log 
houses,  and  the  conflict  with  the  wilderness  seemed 
still  not  ended.  There  is  something  peculiarly  delight- 
ful about  a  region  where  the  over-refinements  of  civiliza- 
tion have  not  penetrated.  Closeness  to  nature  and 
simplicity  and  the  necessity  of  rough  living  appeal  to 
one's  own  primitive  humanity.  I  found  the  people  very 
generously  sociable,  and  on  the  most  slender  acquaint- 
ance they  would  show  me  freely  about  their  premises 
and  urge  me  to  partake  of  such  fruits  as  were  ripe. 

On  my  way  back  a  friendly  farm  family  who  were 
just  sitting  down  to  supper  invited  me  to  share  the 
meal  with  them.  The  man  ushered  me  into  the  dusky 
rag-carpeted  sitting-room  where  we  waited  while  the 


June  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  319 

women  got  ready  a  few  extras  for  their  guest.  Fried 
eggs  and  pork  were  the  mainstay  of  the  meal,  but  they 
set  forth  a  most  impressive  array  of  jellies  and  pre- 
serves, and  cut  an  extraordinary  cake,  six  stories  high,  in 
alternate  layers  of  pink  and  white.  The  heartiness  and 
warmth  of  their  hospitality  won  my  affection,  and  my 
visit  with  them  will  always  remain  one  of  my  pleasant- 
est  memories  of  the  charming  Shenandoah  Valley. 

NOTES. — The  Shenandoah  Valley  is  a  part  of  the  so  called  Valley 
of  Virginia  which  stretches  between  the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  Alle- 
gheny Mountains  southward  from  the  Potomac  for  about  300  miles. 
It  has  much  natural  beauty,  and  the  added  interest  of  the  campaigns 
of  Jackson,  Sheridan,  and  other  leaders  here  in  the  Civil  War. 

The  Caverns  of  Luray  furnish  the  greatest  attraction  in  the  valley 
to  tourists,  and  are  justly  ranked  among  the  most  wonderful  natural 
phenomena  of  America.  They  are  unequalled  for  their  profuse 
decorations  of  stalactites  and  stalagmites.  Five  miles  to  the  east 
is  Strong  Man,  one  of  the  highest  summits  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  A 
trip  to  its  top  makes  a  pleasant  one-day  horseback  excursion,  and 
the  fine  view  from  its  top  is  an  ample  reward. 

The  scenery  of  the  valley  as  one  travels  south  is  increasingly 
picturesque,  and  100  miles  from  Luray  in  this  direction  is  the  famous 
Natural  Bridge. 

From  Hagarstown,  Maryland,  to  Staunton,  Virginia,  at  the  head 
of  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  134  miles,  there  is  a  stone  road  all  the 
way.  But  19  tollgates  occur  in  this  distance,  and  a  toll  of  15  cents 
is  collected  at  each.  Winchester,  42  miles  from  Hagarstown, 
changed  hands  70  times  during  the  Civil  War.  Four  of  the  changes 
took  place  in  a  single  day.  Sheridan's  ride  was  from  Winchester 
south  along  the  Valley  Pike  to  Cedar  Creek.  Luray  is  14  miles  east 
of  the  main  route.  Go  to  it  from  Newmarket.  The  road  passes 
over  Massanutton  Mountain,  and  is  difficult  in  wet  weather. 


XV 


WEST   VIRGINIA    RAMBLES 

I  HAD  followed  up  the  south  branch  of  the  Potomac 
to  a  region  where  the  narrow  valley  was  hemmed 
in  by  mountain  ranges.  Woodland  predominated 
on  the  steeps,  and  the  green  forest  billows  often  heaved 
skyward  in  uninterrupted  succession.  But  many  of  the 
milder,  nearer  heights  had  been  shorn  of  their  natural 
tree  growth,  and  formal  peach  orchards  had  been 
started.  These  orchards  occupied  the  topmost  slopes 
and  summits  and  made  such  mountains  look  as  if  they 
had  been  scalped.  As  seen  from  the  valley  the  peach 
trees  appeared  very  diminutive,  even  when  full-grown, 
and  you  might  fancy  you  were  looking  at  a  potato 
patch.  The  slopes  on  which  the  trees  grew  were  often 
surprisingly  precipitous.  Any  grade  that  would  hold 
soil  was  practical,  and  it  seemed  quite  possible  in  places 
to  stand  on  the  uphill  side  of  the  trees  and  pick  fruit 
from  their  highest  branches. 

Here  and  there  the  valley  was  invaded  by  a  big  hill 
that  the  road  was  obliged  to  climb  directly  over,  and 
on  the  crests  of  these  hills  the  highway  in  some  instances 
crept  along  the  verge  of  a  bluff  with  the  river  directly 
below.  Then  I  could  overlook  the  irregular  valley  in 
either  direction  and  see  the  patchwork  of  farmlands 


West  Virginia  Rambles  321 

where  the  corn  and  wheat  and  grass  crops  were  growing, 
and  where  the  sleek  cattle  were  grazing  in  the  generous 
pastures. 

It  was  early  in  June,  and  the  farmers  were  harvesting 
their  first  crop  of  alfalfa.  "That  air  alfalfa  is  fine 
stuff,"  one  man  said  to  me.  "We  get  three  and  four 
crops  a  year." 

He  was  in  his  barnyard,  which  adjoined  the  road 
with  the  barn  and  a  medley  of  sheds.  That  was  a 
usual  arrangement  of  the  farm  premises.  They  pre- 
sented their  most  unsavory  aspect  to  the  passer  on  the 
highway,  and  the  house  was  in  the  background  pleas- 
antly environed  in  foliage.  Several  of  the  farm  house- 
hold were  giving  a  horse  an  antidote  for  the  distemper. 
They  had  a  little  bellows  smoke-making  apparatus,  and 
used  portions  of  a  big  hornet's  nest  for  fuel.  The  smoke 
was  blown  up  the  nostrils  of  the  horse,  who  submitted 
more  amiably  than  one  would  expect,  though  with 
evident  disgust.  She  was  a  very  pretty,  light-footed 
creature,  and  the  farmer  said:  "She's  a  saddler  from 
way  back — never  was  hooked  up,  never  has  had  a 
harness  on.  If  you'll  look  over  that-a-way  you'll  see  a 
horse  in  the  pasture.  He's  a  driving  horse  and  ain't 
any  good  to  ride.  He  trots  so  solid  you  can't  hardly 
sit  on  him.  It's  seldom  a  horse  is  good  for  harness  and 
saddle  both." 

Horseback  riding  was  a  common  mode  of  locomotion 
throughout  the  region.  So  it  is  in  all  parts  of  the  rural 
South,  probably  because  of  the  scattered  population 


322    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

and  poor  roads.  The  road  I  was  travelling  dipped  into 
a  hollow  just  beyond  the  barnyard  where  I  had  stopped, 
and  the  strewing  of  stones  in  this  hollow  showed  that  a 
torrent  of  considerable  size  coursed  down  it  after  heavy 
rains.  My  farm  acquaintance  said  that  occasionally 
the  stream  swelled  to  such  proportions  that  it  could 
not  be  forded,  and  he  called  my  attention  to  the 
"watering-gates"  in  the  fence  on  either  side.  These 
gates  were  sections  of  fencing  made  fast  at  the  top  so 
that  the  rising  water  would  swing  them  upward,  and 
they  would  not  dam  back  the  water,  catch  rubbish,  or 
be  carried  away.  When  the  water  receded  they  would 
fall  back  to  their  original  position. 

As  I  was  about  to  start  to  go  on,  the  farmer  said, 
"What  is  your  name,  if  I  may  ask?" 

I  told  him,  and  he  remarked:  "I'm  a  Pancake. 
Funny  name,  ain't  it?  We're  all  Pancakes  along  this 
valley  for  ten  miles  or  more.  Over  the  mountain  to 
the  west  they're  all  Parkers  for  about  the  same  dis- 
tance." 

"How  can  I  get  over  there?"  I  inquired. 

"The  best  way  from  where  you  are  at  now,"  he  said, 
"is  to  keep  on  along  the  road  to  the  next  big  pasture. 
You  go  across  that  and  the  cornfield  beyond,  and  in  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  cornfield  you'll  find  a  path  that 
will  take  you  through  the  trees  on  the  river  bank  to  a 
footbridge.  Right  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  is  a 
road  that  goes  over  the  mountain." 

I  decided  to  visit  the  land  of  the  Parkers  and  was 


A  log  house  on  the  mountain 


West  Virginia  Rambles  323 

presently  crossing  the  pasture  and  cornfield,  avoiding 
as  well  as  I  could  the  muddy  spots  and  the  tangles  along 
the  fences  where  poison  ivy  lurked.  When  I  reached 
the  river  the  bridge  proved  to  be  a  suspension  affair 
made  of  wires  with  a  slatted  footway.  It  served  chiefly 
to  give  the  farmer  owner  access  to  such  of  his  fields  as 
were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream  from  his  resi- 
dence. Beneath  my  footsteps  the  bridge  teetered  and 
wobbled  and  creaked  rather  alarmingly,  and  I  was 
thankful  when  the  passage  had  been  safely  made.  On 
the  bank  was  a  lonely  farmhouse  and  a  small  store.  A 
man  was  just  coming  out  of  the  door  of  the  latter  with 
a  plug  of  tobacco  he  had  bought,  and  I  asked  him  for 
directions.  After  he  had  got  a  quid  in  his  mouth  and 
spit  once  or  twice  he  pointed  to  a  gate  and  told  me  to 
go  through  that. 

Appearances  suggested  that  the  road  did  not  lead 
anywhere  except  to  some  woddlot,  but  I  went  through 
the  heavy  gate  past  a  group  of  mildly  curious  cows  and 
on  up  the  steep  hill  and  through  another  gate  into  the 
woods.  The  road,  with  many  a  twist  and  turn,  fol- 
lowed up  a  ravine  that  partially  cleft  the  mountain 
barrier.  At  one  place  another  road  parted  from  it,  and 
there,  just  aside  from  the  wheel  tracks,  stood  a  little 
white  schoolhouse.  Roundabout  rose  the  green-walled 
forest,  and  the  woodland  birds  sang,  and  a  light  breeze 
whispered  in  the  upper  foliage  of  the  trees,  but  I  could 
hear  no  human  sound  nor  see  the  least  indication  that 
any  habitations  were  near.  The  door  was  locked,  and 


324    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

the  building  vacant,  for  it  was  vacation  time.  I  looked 
in  at  a  window  and  observed  the  rude,  unpainted  box 
desks.  Conspicuous  on  the  walls  hung  two  mottoes — 
"Never  be  Idle"  and  "God  Sees  Me." 

I  resumed  my  upward  climb  and  at  last  reached  the 
summit  of  the  mountain  where  I  found  fencing  and 
another  ponderous  gate.  Soon  there  began  to  be  clear- 
ings and  farmhouses  at  intervals  along  the  slender 
descending  highway.  I  stopped  at  one  of  these  dwell- 
ings. It  was  of  logs  and  was  typically  Southern,  with 
whitewashed  walls,  a  porch  extending  across  the  front, 
and  a  great  chimney  built  up  against  one  end.  The 
adjacent  road  was  hemmed  in  by  zigzag  rail  fences,  but 
there  was  no  gate  or  barway  to  give  entrance  to  the 
yard,  and  every  one  came  and  went  over  a  low  place 
where  two  or  three  of  the  top  rails  had  been  taken  off. 
A  request  for  a  drink  of  water  served  as  an  introduction, 
and  then  I  sat  down  on  the  porch,  and  the  family  gath- 
ered there  to  visit  with  me.  Through  the  open  house- 
door  I  could  see  a  fireplace  filled  with  laurel,  and  a 
ceiling  of  whitewashed  floor  boards  and  supporting 
crosspieces  that  was  so  low  the  farmer  had  to  stoop  as 
he  walked  through  the  room.  He  had  to  stoop  still 
more  to  come  out  of  the  door. 

"The  best  time  to  see  this  country,"  he  said,  "is 
when  the  peaches  are  ripe.  They  raise  some  of  the 
nicest  peaches  here  you  ever  laid  your  eyes  on.  We've 
got  a  small  orchard  on  this  place — about  a  thousand 
trees.  That's  only  a  garden  patch  compared  with  the 


West  Virginia  Rambles  325 

hundreds  of  acres  some  have.  It'll  give  you  a  notion 
of  the  scale  they  work  on  here  when  I  tell  you  that  this 
spring  I  saw  seven  four-horse  wagon  loads  of  trees 
goin'  to  a  single  orchard  to  be  planted.  There's  a  lot 
of  work  in  the  business,  but  most  of  the  year  five  men 
can  take  care  of  a  hundred-acre  orchard,  but  thirty  or 
forty  men  are  needed  to  pick  and  pack  the  fruit. 
Peaches  run  four  months  or  more  here.  I've  seen  lots 
of  'em  ripe  by  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  we  can  keep  the 
last  ones  up  to  Christmas  by  wrapping  'em.  One  thing 
I  don't  like  is  that  we  have  to  pick  'em  before  they're 
good  and  ripe  in  order  to  get  'em  to  market.  You 
could  n't  handle  'em  to  ship  'em  on  the  railroad  if  you 
let  'em  get  ripe.  It  looks  curious  to  see  the  orchards  all 
up  on  the  mountains.  The  land  in  the  valleys  is  just 
as  good  for  'em,  but  the  tree  would  run  too  much  risk 
of  freezing.  The  cold  settles  in  the  hollows.  You  go 
through  a  low  place  on  a  cool, 'still  night,  and  the  frost 
will  pinch  your  nose,  but  you'll  feel  the  air  grow  warmer 
as  soon  as  you  strike  a  rising  grade." 

"If  you'd  come  along  this  morning,"  the  housewife 
said,  "I  could  have  shown  you  a  wild  turkey.  It  was  a 
young  one  that  Will  caught  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
field  where  he  was  ploughing  potatoes.  He  heard  the 
old  bird  call  tereckly  in  the  woods  close  by,  and  it  must 
have  had  a  nest  there.  Will  brought  the  small  one 
home,  but  the  poor  little  thing  was  so  scarey  it  could  n't 
eat.  If  you  took  it  up  in  your  hands  it  would  blow  like 
a  snake,  and  jus'  as  soon  as  you  let  it  go  it  would  creep 


326    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

around  wild-like  and  get  into  some  hole.  Toward  noon 
it  died,  and  the  boys  buried  it.  Turkeys  are  pretty 
delicate  things,  I  tell  you — even  the  tame  ones.  If  a 
little  wild  turkey  grows  up  with  our  tame  flock  it  gets 
very  wild  in  the  fall,  and  when  it  eats  it'll  never  give 
mo'  than  three  or  four  picks  without  putting  up  its 
head  and  lookin'  in  every  direction." 

"I  killed  a  wild  turkey  last  Thanksgiving  Day," 
Will  said,  "and  I  got  another  the  day  before  Christmas. 
They're  darker  than  tame  turkeys  and  their  feathers 
don't  have  quite  the  same  markings.  They  can  make 
a  good  strong  flight,  but  it  ain't  easy  for  'em  to  rise 
out  of  the  hollers.  They  need  to  start  on  an  elevation. 
The  large  males  weigh  anywhere  from  twelve  to  twenty- 
five  pounds.  We  used  to  could  ship  them  to  the  cities 
and  get  a  fancy  price,  but  that's  against  the  law  now. 

"I  take  my  gun  along  when  I'm  goin'  out  to  chop  in 
the  woods  or  when  I  go  of  a  morning  to  shuck  corn  in  a 
field  surrounded  by  heavy  timber.  The  turkeys  come 
into  the  cornfield  to  eat.  I  go  quiet,  and  they're  hungry 
and  so  don't  notice  me  as  quick  as  usual.  Sometimes 
I  scatter  a  trail  of  corn  and  hide  in  the  brush  by  a  rail 
fence.  That  gives  a  feller  a  chance  to  get  mo'  than  one. 
I've  seen  as  high  as  forty  in  a  single  drove.  Since  the 
game  laws  have  been  made  strict  they're  gettin'  mo' 
plenty.  They  stay  in  the  mountain  all  winter,  and  feed 
in  the  grainfields,  and  at  the  cornstacks,  and  they  eat 
sumac  seeds  and  dogwood  berries  and  wild  grapes.  We 
often  hear  them  gobbling  in  the  spring.  Once  in  a  while 


West  Virginia  Rambles  327 

a  man  will  take  one  of  the  wing  bones  and  go  out  in  the 
woods  near  some  high  place,  and  put  the  bone  in  his 
mouth  and  imitate  the  gobbling.  That'll  bring  the 
turkeys  near  enough  for  him  to  get  a  shot." 

"I  had  an  adventure  the  other  day,"  the  housewife 
said.  "Will  had  borrowed  a  lantern  of  a  neighbor  when 
he  was  out  one  dark  evening,  and  I  was  going  along  a 
woodroad  taking  the  lantern  home.  I  was  thinkin'  of 
snakes.  The  children's  grandmother  has  always 
warned  'em  to  carry  a  knife  to  defend  themselves  with 
if  a  snake  tried  to  wrap  around  'em,  and  she'd  tell  'em 
an  awful  story  about  a  woman  that  was  crushed  to 
death  by  a  snake.  I  decided  that  if  a  snake  coiled 
round  me  I'd  take  a  rock  and  use  it  to  cut  off  the 
snake's  head. 

"Jus'  then  something  dashed  up  into  my  sunbonnet 
with  a  great  flutter  and  tried  to  pick  my  face.  Until  I 
could  get  my  eyes  clear  I  thought  it  was  a  snake,  and  I 
struck  at  it  with  the  lantern.  It  did  n't  fight  me  very 
long,  and  as  soon  as  it  quit  I  saw  it  was  a  pheasant,  or 
what  you  people  up  North  call  a  partridge.  Right  beside 
the  road  were  as  many  as  fifteen  of  its  young  ones,  but 
they  all  scattered  and  hid  under  leaves,  and  in  a  few 
moments  I  could  n't  see  a  one  of  'em.  The  old  bird  ran 
away  with  its  feathers  all  standing  out  as  if  it  was  some 
furry  animal,  and  it  was  cryin'  so  pitiful  I  was  sorry 
for  it.  'You  need  n't  be  afraid,  little  bird,'  I  said.  'I 
won't  hurt  you;'  and  I  went  on  about  my  business." 

"Grandma  and  Aunt  Jane  won't  either  of  'em  travel 


328    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

up  this  holler  alone,"  the  man  said.  "They're  afraid 
of  snakes,  bears,  mountain  lions,  and  I  don't  know 
what.  So  they  always  go  in  pairs." 

"Well,  they  do  say  there  are  wildcats  around  here," 
his  wife  remarked. 

"Yes,"  Will  agreed,  "there's  some  few,  but  not 
many.  Our  next  neighbor  up  above  told  me  that  the 
first  day  this  season  when  he  took  his  cattle  through 
the  gap  to  the  mountain  pasture  they  were  frightened 
and  ran  up  into  the  woods,  and  he  heard  a  wildcat 
scream.  It's  a  shrill,  unpleasant  sound  that  makes  a 
feller  feel  bad  when  he's  out  in  a  lonely  place." 

On  a  shed  in  the  yard  was  a  coonskin  stretched  dry- 
ing. "The  boys  and  I  got  that  coon  one  night  last 
week,"  Will  said.  "We'd  been  to  the  creek  giggin',  and 
was  comin'  home  along  a  run — that's  the  name  we 
give  to  a  small  stream  what  you  can  step  or  jump  over 
— when  the  dog  got  after  a  coon.  They  had  n't  run  far 
before  the  coon  went  up  a  sycamore  tree,  and  I  climbed 
up  after  it.  The  tree  was  full  of  seed  fuzz,  and  when  I  got 
to  shaking  it  back  and  forth  I  could  only  cough  and 
sneeze.  But  I  dislodged  the  coon,  and  by  the  time  I 
climbed  down,  the  dog  had  killed  it.  I'm  goin'  to  take 
the  hide  to  the  tannery  and  have  it  made  into  gloves." 

The  company. on  the  piazza  included  a  young  woman 
relative  of  the  family  whose  home  was  in  town.  "I 
went  giggin'  with  'em  that  night,"  she  said.  "Will  had 
on  these  here  gum  shoes  to  keep  from  slippin',  but 
the  boys  was  barefoot.  The  water  was  cold,  and  yet 


West  Virginia  Rambles  329 

Will  went  out  cle'r  up  to  his  middle.  The  gig  was  a 
pole  with  a  four-barbed  prong  on  the  end.  We  had  a 
lantern,  and  we  had  a  great  big  wire  basket  full  of 
blazing  pieces  of  fat  pine.  The  basket  was  fastened  to 
a  pole  that  Will  held  out  in  front  of  him  in  his  left  hand 
with  the  help  of  a  strap  from  his  shoulder,  and  he  would 
gig  with  his  right  hand.  The  fire  made  such  a  bright 
light  he  could  see  the  fish  a-layin'  restin'  right  at  the 
bottom  of  the  crick.  I  took  the  fish  off  the  gig,  and  I 
was  jus'  crazy  to  gig  a  snake  I  found,  but  they  would  n't 
let  me  run  the  gig  into  it,  for  fear  it  was  poison  and  the 
gig  might  afterward  poison  the  fish  so  we  would  n't 
dare  eat  'em.  We  got  sunfish  and  bass  and  suckers — 
thirty-four  in  all — and  the  largest  ones  weighed  as  much 
as  two  pounds.  Besides,  we  gigged  three  eels  and  ten 
frogs.  You  know  frog  legs  are  quite  a  delicacy.  They 
certainly  were  fine.  Yes,  and  we  ate  our  coon,  too. 
You  betcher  we  did.  I'm  a  great  lover  of  wild  meat. 
Why,  I  like  ground  hog.  You  first  boil  'em  till  they're 
tender,  then  roll  'em  in  flour  and  fry  'em  in  butter,  and 
they're  as  nice  meat  as  you  could  ask." 

"Not  for  the  one  that  cooks  'em,"  the  housewife 
said.  "They're  the  fattest  things  I've  ever  seen,  and 
when  you  get  the  smell  of  'em  while  they're  cooking 
that's  all  you  want.  One  whiff  is  enough  for  me." 

"You  must  have  cooked  an  old  one,"  the  other 
woman  retorted,  "and  naturally  that  was  strong  and 
didn't  eat  very  good." 

"We  have  cold  winters  here  in  the  mountains,"  the 


330    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

farmer  observed.  "But  I  knowed  a  man  whose  home 
was  within  two  miles  of  here  who  told  me  he  never  wore 
shoes  till  he  was  ten  years  old.  He'd  run  out  barefoot 
in  the  snow,  and  yet  he  was  always  hearty  and  lived 
to  a  ripe  old  age.  He  was  a  regular  old-time  man.  It 
was  his  way  to  be  very  stingy  and  close,  and  he  got  to 
be  worth  right  smart  of  money,  for  he  never  spent  any 
foolishly.  He  was  in  a  constant  worry  about  the  affairs 
of  other  people,  and  when  a  young  couple  married  and 
their  families  thought  they  was  makin'  a  fine  match 
he'd  shake  his  head  and  say,  'Time'll  tell.'  If  the  mar- 
riage was  among  the  poor  mountain  people  he'd  say, 
'I  wonder  where  they'll  squat  at.' 

"He  was  fretting  as  to  how  this  one  and  that  one 
would  get  along,  and  was  always  foreseeing  difficulties. 
Really,  those  he  pitied  got  more  out  of  life  than  he  did, 
and  so  it  is  generally.  The  poor  are  the  happiest  people 
we  have.  There's  lots  of  'em  up  in  the  mountains  who 
don't  know  what  they'll  have  to  eat  from  one  day  to 
another,  and  at  the  same  time  they  are  enjoyin'  them- 
selves. 

"The  old  man  I  was  speakin'  of  used  tobacker.  He'd 
take  some  and  chew  it  a  while  and  then  put  it  in  a  box 
to  keep  it  for  further  use.  He'd  chew  it  again  and 
again,  adding  a  little  nip  of  unchewed  to  freshen  it  up 
now  and  then,  and  he  would  n't  throw  it  away  till  it 
was  white." 

"He  sure  got  all  the  good  out  of  it,"  the  housewife 
commented,*"  or  all  the  bad." 


Worm  fences 


West  Virginia  Rambles  331 

"As  long  as  he  lived  he  economized  in  just  such  ways 
as  that,"  the  man  continued;  "and  he  left  a  fortune  to 
his  nephew  who's  spending  it  jus'  as  fast  as  the  old 
gentleman  saved  it,  and  maybe  faster.  The  nephew 
don't  chew  his  tobacker  more'n  once.  His  uncle  was 
a  bright  old  feller  to  talk  with  and  a  fine  man  to  work 
for;  and  though  he  was  close  in  a  deal  he  was  straight 
up  and  down  in  business  and  perfectly  honest. 

"He  never  married,  but  there  was  a  lady  that  he 
courted,  and  three  different  times  they  set  the  day  for 
the  wedding,  and  each  time  he  made  some  excuse  for 
delaying  the  ceremony.  All  his  life  he  was  attentive 
to  her,  and  he  was  doubly  so  if  any  one  else  came  around 
with  an  appearance  of  wanting  her.  Well,  you  can't 
see  the  heart,  and  I  don't  know  whether  she  suffered 
or  not.  She  always  thought  he  would  remember  her 
in  his  will,  but  he  did  n't." 

"Those  two  boys  have  got  to  pick  some  strawberries," 
the  housewife  said,  indicating  a  couple  of  youngsters 
who  were  playing  with  the  dog  in  the  yard.  "I  sent  them 
a  while  ago  to  pick  four  baskets  that  I've  promised  to 
a  neighbor,  but  they  did  n't  fill  the  baskets  good  and 
full." 

I  said  I  would  go  with  them,  and  the  man  went  along, 
too.  We  went  through  a  gate  into  a  pasture,  and  on 
the  far  side  of  the  pasture  passed  through  a  second  gate 
into  a  field,  and  a  little  farther  on  we  climbed  a  high 
fence  and  were  in  the  strawberry  patch.  This  was  on 
such  a  marvellously  steep  slope  that  the  grip  of  the 


332    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

plants'  hold  on  the  earth  seemed  decidedly  precarious, 
and  you  could  fancy  that  a  picker  in  an  unguarded 
moment  might  lose  his  balance  and  roll  down  and  get 
a  new  pattern  on  his  clothing.  The  man  said  he  had  to 
work  the  land  with  a  mule,  and  I  could  readily  under- 
stand that  a  horse  would  not  be  sure-footed  enough  for 
so  steep  a  slant. 

"I've  got  much  better  soil  than  this  for  berries," 
the  man  remarked,  "but  on  rich  ground  the  weeds  whip 
you  out." 

He  called  my  attention  to  a  heap  of  brush  just  over 
the  fence.  "I  killed  a  rattlesnake  in  there  last  year," 
said  he.  "I  was  digging  sprouts  and  disturbed  him, 
and  the  first  thing  I  knew  I  heard  the  old  feller  rattle, 
and  I  smelt  his  poison.  Then  I  tore  the  brush  heap  to 
pieces,  and  suddenly  he  made  a  dive  for  me.  But 
luckily  he  did  n't  get  me,  and  I  killed  him  with  my 
hoe.  He  had  nine  rattles  and  was  fully  six  feet  long. 
I  saved  the  hide.  Ladies  like  to  have  belts  made  out 
of  a  snake-hide.  The  skin  is  very  thin  and  has  to  be 
stretched  on  to  leather,  and  after  that  buckles  can  be 
sewed  on." 

It  did  not  take  us  long  to  gather  the  few  berries  that 
were  needed,  and  then  we  returned  as  we  had  come. 
But  when  we  got  to  the  highway  I  went  on  down  the 
mountain  until  I  had  left  the  woodland  behind  and 
was  in  a  fertile,  well-tilled  valley.  Toward  night  I 
stopped  at  a  farmhouse  and  engaged  lodging.  Behind 
the  dwelling  was  a  broad  level  of  luscious  fields.  In 


West  Virginia  Rambles  333 

front  was  a  little  strip  of  steep  pasturage  and  an  abrupt 
wooded  ridge.  I  sat  down  on  the  piazza  where  a 
ponderous  elderly  man  was  perusing  a  newspaper.  He 
nodded  to  me  and  said:  "The  weather's  quite  cool  for 
this  time  of  year.  We  had  a  frost  last  night,  but  it's 
in  the  dark  of  the  moon,  and  so  our  crops  wa'n't  hurt." 

Just  then  a  small  boy  came  running  around  the 
corner  of  the  house.  Another  boy,  uttering  cries  of 
wrath,  followed  in  hot  pursuit.  It  seemed  that  the 
former  was  running  away  with  the  latter's  hat;  but 
my  companion  brought  the  chase  to  a  close  by  crying 
out  in  a  voice  that  had  a  thunderous  rumble  in  it: 
"Give  your  brother  his  hat.  I'm  goin'  to  git  a  holt  of 
you,  sir,  unless  you  do." 

Presently  a  younger  man  joined  us.  His  hobby 
appeared  to  be  automobiles.  The  highway  was  much 
frequented  by  them,  and  he  commented  on  every  one 
that  passed — told  what  make  it  was  and  its  faults  and 
virtues.  "The  fact  is,  I  don't  like  farmin',"  he  ex- 
plained, "and  I've  got  a  little  repair  shop  and  do  con- 
siderable work  tinkerin'  mobubbles  in  it.  They're 
always  gettin'  out  of  whack,  you  know,  and  their 
owners  often  only  have  gumption  enough  to  start  and 
stop  'em  and  keep  'em  in  the  road.  There's  another 
one  passing.  What  a  racket  it  makes! — reminds  me  of 
a  manure-spreader.  I'll  show  you  my  shop  if  you  care 
to  see  it." 

So  I  visited  the  shop  and  saw  its  varied  tools  and 
mechanical  devices.  In  an  adjacent  shed  the  young 


334    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

man  was  making  an  automobile  out  of  an  old  gasoline 
engine  combined  with  parts  of  a  sewing  machine  and 
mowing  machine  and  other  worn-out  farm  machines. 
There  were  ingenious  contrivances  also  whereby  the 
engine  could  be  made  to  run  a  churn,  a  band  saw,  a 
corn  sheller,  and  a  grindstone. 

"I've  monkeyed  with  a  little  bit  of  everything,"  the 
young  man  remarked  when  we  returned  to  the  piazza. 
"Lately  I've  been  thinkin'  I'd  try  raising  ginseng.  It 
grows  wild  in  the  mountains.  I  found  quite  a  patch  of 
it  once  up  in  a  hollow  on  our  land,  and  I  was  intending 
to  dig  it  after  a  while.  But  we  had  a  couple  of  men 
cutting  pulp  wood,  and  they  run  into  it  and  dug  it  up 
on  our  time.  They  got  eighteen  pounds  of  dry  roots 
that  they  sold  for  something  like  six  or  seven  dollars  a 
pound.  We  did  n't  know  what  they'd  done  till  several 
months  later.  I  could  have  shipped  it  myself  and  got 
twenty  dollars  a  pound.  It's  a  rich  lookin'  plant,  as 
you- see  it  in  the  woods,  with  dark  green  leaves.  There's 
nothin'  else  like  it.  I  can  tell  a  bunch  of  that  amongst 
a  thousand  other  plants.  The  mountaineers  trail  these 
mountains  all  through  and  hunt  wild  animals  and  dig 
out  ginseng.  They  begin  digging  along  about  May  or 
June,  and  keep  on  up  to  the  time  that  the  frost  bites  it. 
What  they  get  is  all  shipped  to  China,  where  the  people 
have  a  superstitious  idea  that  it  is  a  good  medicine. 
There's  lots  of  herbs  growing  in  our  mountains  that  are 
of  some  use,  such  as  lady  slipper  and  coon  root  and  May 
apple — I've  e't  a  many  of  them  apples — rattleweed, 


West  Virginia  Rambles  335 

elecampane,  peppermint,  calamus — they  make  a  tea 
out  of  calamus  which  they  claim  is  good  for  the  colic — 
sassafras,  wild  hyssop,  and  sarsaparilla — that  there  is 
a  blood-cleanser. 

"You'd  be  surprised  how  ignorant  the  mountaineers 
are.  They  say  'fernent'  for  opposite,  and  'outen'  for 
out,  and  all  that  sort  of  brogue.  The  children  grow  up 
just  as  ignorant  as  their  parents.  They  have  enough 
natural  ability  and  are  good  workers,  and  have  reasona- 
ble horse  sense,  but  they  get  no  schooling  and  are 
heedless  and  dull.  I  knew  an  old  feller  who  had  eighteen 
children,  and  he  said  he  did  n't  want  none  of  'em  to 
learn  to  read  or  write.  'I  did  n't  have  any  education,' 
he  said,  '  and  there  ain't  a  blame  bit  of  use  in  it.  There's 
too  much  readin'  goin'  on,  and  that's  what  makes  so 
many  rascals  and  thieves.' 

"He  entertained  himself  chiefly  by  chewin'  tobacker 
and  cursin'.  He's  dead  now,  and  the  devil's  keepin' 
him  company  maybe. 

"There's  an  old  woman  of  that  class  of  people  who's 
livin'  on  a  side  road  not  a  mile  away.  She  talks  like  a 
lion  a-roarin'  and  looks  vicious.  It  would  n't  take  her 
long  to  tell  you  that  you  were  an  infernal  fool,  and  yet 
she  don't  know  A  from  a  haystack.  Her  parents  were 
first  cousins,  and  there  was  something  the  matter  with 
all  their  five  children.  Every  one  of  'em  had  a  room  to 
rent  in  the  upper  story.  But  this  woman  has  a  son 
who's  all  right.  He's  sharp  as  a  tack.  That  fellow  has 
always  got  an  answer  for  you." 


336    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

In  the  pasture  across  the  road  milking  had  begun, 
and  I  went  to  watch  the  process  from  near  at  hand. 
The  milkers  included  the  household  grandmother,  a 
recently  adopted  orphan  girl,  and  the  hired  man. 
Grandma  spent  much  of  her  time  giving  directions  to 
the  orphan,  who  was  making  her  first  attempt.  "When 
I  was  ten  years  old,"  Grandma  said  to  her,  "I  could 
milk  as  well  as  I  can  now,  and  you're  thirteen." 

"But  this  cow  won't  give  down  her  milk,"  the  orphan 
complained. 

"Talk  about  not  givin'  down  her  milk!"  Grandma 
scoffed,  "why,  her  bag  is  just  full  of  it." 

Then,  after  some  detailed  advice,  she  said:  "There, 
you  make  it  rattle  in  the  bucket  now.  Oh,  you're 
milkin'  a  heap  better  than  when  you  started." 

After  they  finished  their  task  Grandma  looked  into 
the  orphan's  small  tin  pail,  and  said:  "Well,  you've 
filled  your  bucket,  anyway,  and  you've  got  about  as 
much  more  on  your  clothes.  They're  wringin'  wet." 

By  and  by  we  had  supper,  and  later  the  young  farmer 
and  I  stood  and  chatted  in  the  yard,  while  the  hired  man 
sat  on  the  woodpile.  This  hired  man  was  deaf  and 
dumb.  "He's  got  some  education  at  an  institution," 
said  the  farmer,  "and  I've  learned  the  sign  language  so 
I  can  talk  with  him.  He's  a  pretty  good  worker,  but 
he  wants  things  to  go  his  way,  and  his  way  is  a  mighty 
poor  one.  I'm  'bout  the  only  person  who  can  manage 
him.  If  I  send  him  off  by  himself  to  work  he's  very  apt 
to  stand  and  talk — that  is,  go  through  the  sign  motions 


West  Virginia  Rambles  337 

with  his  hands.  But  I  suppose  he  has  rather  a  lone- 
some time  of  it.  I  had  him  go  along  with  me  to  a 
cattle-show  last  week,  where,  among  other  things,  they 
exhibited  a  six-legged  calf.  That  calf  interested  him 
very  much.  It  tuck  his  mind  off  his  self.  You  would  n't 
think  it,  but  he's  got  a  right  smart  of  money  saved  up. 
He  never  spends  a  cent  if  he  can  help  it,  and  if  it  was 
left  to  him,  his  clothes  would  hang  in  shreds  before  he'd 
buy  new  ones.  Well,  let's  go  in." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  parlor  where  he  lit  a  lamp  and 
handed  me  a  piece  of  sheet  music  to  look  at.  "It's 
something  I  composed,"  he  said.  "There  was  a  small 
charge  for  getting  it  published,  but  it's  priced  at  fifty 
cents,  and  the  publishers  sent  me  two  hundred  copies. 
Perhaps  you'd  like  to  hear  a  little  music." 

He  produced  a  guitar  and  tuned  it,  put  around  his 
neck  a  wire  so  bent  as  to  hold  a  "mouth-harp"  before 
his  face,  and  then  played  me  various  tunes  grave  and 
gay,  meanwhile  thumping  the  time  with  his  foot.  He 
wore  his  grimy  working  clothes,  and  retained  on  his 
head  a  misshapen  old  straw  hat.  The  music  brought 
the  children  into  the  room,  and  the  gentle,  sedate  little 
orphan  girl  seated  herself  bolt  upright  in  a  chair  and 
listened  with  fascinated  attention.  But  now  and  then 
she  cast  anxious  glances  at  the  boys  and  cautioned  them 
with  mild  ineffectiveness  to  be  quiet.  They  had  lain 
down  on  the  sofa  and  snugged  up  together  giggling 
and  squirming. 

At  length  their  father  turned  on  them  and  exclaimed: 


338    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

"Say!  I  wish  you  kids  would  behave  yourselves.  I'll 
put  you  upstairs  in  the  dark  if  you  don't." 

His  threat  did  not  quell  the  riot,  and  soon  he  again 
addressed  them,  saying;  "Look  here,  Sam  and  John, 
you  stop  that  noise!" 

He  strode  across  the  room  and  bestowed  a  resounding 
spank  on  each.  Sam,  after  suffering  this  indignity, 
left  the  room,  and  we  had  peace  until  he  returned. 
Then  a  gradually  increasing  disturbance  once  more 
aroused  the  paternal  wrath.  "Young  man,"  said  the 
musician,  "you've  commenced  them  shines  again. 
Now  cut  'em  right  square  out. 

"Most  everybody  around  here  likes  music,"  he  re- 
marked to  me.  "Generally  the  boys  learn  to  play 
the  fiddle,  and  the  girls  take  lessons  on  the  organ  or 
piano." 

He  paused  a  moment  as  if  hearkening  for  some  ex- 
pected sound.  "My  wife  has  driven  over  to  the  vil- 
lage," he  said,  "and  I  must  n't  forget  to  kind  o'  keep 
a  listen  out  for  her  team  to  come  in  the  yard." 

Then  he  rose  and  substituted  a  fiddle  for  his  guitar, 
and  remained  standing  which  he  regaled  me  with  a 
few  tunes.  "I  don't  make  it  go  as  good  as  I  ought  to," 
he  apologized.  "The  weather  is  so  chilly  tonight  my 
fingers  are  dumb,  as  the  feller  said.  I  don't  hardly 
ever  fool  with  the  fiddle  any  more.  Here's  my  cornet. 
On  Sunday  evenings  I  often  play  it  to  the  children. 
The  trouble  is  that  I  start  right  in  after  supper,  and  I 
ain't  got  the  space  then  to  work  my  bellers." 


Returning  from  the  post  office 


West  Virginia  Rambles  339 

He  gave  me  a  few  sample  melodies  on  the  cornet,  and 
then  took  up  a  whistle  that  belonged  to  the  boys  and 
showed  how  it  could  be  made  to  sound  like  a  fife  or 
like  a  flute.  As  a  final  climax  to  his  musical  exhibition 
he  played  the  mouth-harp  with  his  nose. 

"Here's  a  newspaper,  if  you'd  care  to  read  it,"  he 
said  at  length,  handing  me  a  copy  that  he  picked  up 
from  the  table.  "The  papers  are  full  of  politics  now, 
and  most  of  the  men  around  spend  a  lot  of  time  gabbin' 
and  gassin'  over  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  things.  They 
don't  know  what  they're  talkin'  about,  and  I'm  tired 
of  the  whole  dog-gone  business.  My  daddy's  a  demo- 
crat, but  I  vote  for  any  man  I  please.  Did  you  ever 
see  this  book?" 

He  brought  one  from  a  meagre  collection  of  preten- 
tious subscription  books  and  cheap  novels  that  occupied 
two  or  three  shelves  of  a  cabinet.  It  was  an  anti-negro 
volume  that  proved  by  various  Bible  texts  that  the 
colored  people  are  by  nature  allied  to  the  beasts  and 
therefore  should  be  the  white  man's  servants.  He  was 
telling  me  how  invincible  the  argument  of  the  book  was 
when  we  heard  wheels  in  the  yard.  His  wife  had  ar- 
rived, and  he  went  to  take  care  of  the  horse.  After- 
ward he  piloted  me  to  my  room,  a  small  apartment  in 
which  there  were  two  beds.  One  of  the  beds  was 
occupied  by  the  hired  man,  who  snored  with  stentorian 
vigor,  and  it  was  quite  a  while  before  I  could  accustom 
myself  to  that  sort  of  a  lullaby  and  fall  asleep. 

The  hired  man  got  up  at  daylight  and  went  forth  to 


34-O    Highways  and  Byways — St.  Lawrence  to  Virginia 

start  work.  When  I  rose  an  hour  or  two  later  and  went 
outdoors  the  western  side  of  the  valley  was  illumined 
by  the  clear  summer  sunshine,  but  the  eastern  side, 
where  the  house  stood,  was  still  in  the  chill  shadow  of 
the  wooded  ridge.  The  chickens  were  peeping  hungrily, 
the  turkeys  were  picking  about  the  yard  looking  for 
stray  morsels,  and  the  dogs  were  curled  up  near  the 
back  door. 

We  presently  had  breakfast,  and  after  that  work 
began  in  earnest,  and  I  once  more  betook  myself  to 
the  highway. 

NOTES. — The  state  is  notable  for  its  very  great  resources  in  coal, 
oil,  and  gas.  Wheeling,  the  largest  city,  is  an  important  trading  and 
manufacturing  center.  On  the  borders  of  the  city,  at  the  crest  of 
Fulton  Hill,  is  what  is  known  as  McCulloch's  Leap.  McCulloch 
was  a  celebrated  Indian  fighter,  who  here  escaped  pursuing  savages 
by  going  over  the  precipice,  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high.  Pitts- 
burg,  sixty-two  miles  distant,  is  connected  with  Wheeling  by  a  hilly, 
winding  dirt  road  that  is  fairly  good  most  of  the  way. 

The  most  important  motor  route  in  the  southern  part  of  the  state 
passes  through  Charleston,  the  capital.  To  the  east  it  passes  over 
the  mountains  to  Virginia  Hot  Springs  and  to  the  west  it  goes  to 
Ohio. 

For  more  about  West  Virginia  see  "Highways  and  Byways  of  the 
South." 


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MEXICO:  THE  WONDERLAND  OF  THE  SOUTH 

By  W.  E.  Carson 
"The  best  popular  book  on  Mexico  that  we  have  seen" — America. 

PANAMA:  THE  CANAL,  THE  COUNTRY  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Albert  Edwards 
"One  of  the  very  best  of  travel  books." — New  York  Herald 

BOSTON:  THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  M.  A.  De  Wolfe  Howe 

"One  of  the  best  all-round  books  about  Boston  yet  published" 

— Argonaut 

NEW  ORLEANS:  THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Grace  King 
"A  useful  and  attractive  book." — Daily  Telegraph. 

CHARLESTON:    THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel 

"Every  page  is  pregnant  with  interesting  fact  and  suggestion" 

— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger 

PHILADELPHIA:  THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Agnes  Repplier 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  GREAT  NORTH 
Labrador:  The  Country  and  the  People 

BY  WILFRED  T.  GRENFELL,  C.  M.  G.,  M.  R.  C.  S.,  M.  D.,  (OxoN.) 

The  Celebrated  Missionary  Doctor  of  the  Artie  and  others 

New  and  enlarged  edition,  beautifully  and  profusely  illustrated. 

Decorated  doth,  Gilt  tops,  $2.50  net;  postpaid,  $2.72 

Labrador  is,  relatively  speaking,  an  unknown  land.  Its  great  natural 
resources,  the  wonderful  awe-inspiring  grandeur  of  its  rugged  scenery  with 
mountains  of  fantastic  architecture  and  the  delicate  and  fascinating  colors 
of  Artie  auroras  playing  over  all, — these  are  things  of  which  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  readers  know  nothing.  Dr.  Grenfell,  who  has  lived  long  in  this 
region,  writes  of  the  natural  beauties  of  the  country  as  well  as  the  future  of 
Labrador  and  the  relation  of  its  rapid  development  to  the  North  American 
Continent. 


The  Heart  of  Gaspe' 

SKETCHES  IN  THE  GULF  OF  ST.  LAWRENCE 

BY  JOHN  MASON  CLARKE 
Illustrated  cloth,  8vo,  $2.00  net;  postpaid,  $2.18 

Gaspe,  one  of  the  most  romantic  spots  left  in  America,  is  the  latest 
discovery  of  the  tourist  in  search  of  the  picturesque.  This  bit  of  seacoast 
in  the  Peninsula  of  Eastern  Quebec  is  remarkable  for  its  scenery,  its  history 
and  its  people.  Its  story  is  told  and  its  beauties  described  in  this  book  by 
one  who  knows  Gaspe  from  years  of  acquaintance  and  exploration. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


New  Books  of  Travel,  Adventure  and  Description 


My  Life  with  the  Eskimos 

BY  VILHJALMUR  STEFANSSON 

Illustrated  with  half-tone  reproductions  of  photographs  taken  by  the  author 
and  others.     Decorated  cloth,  8vo.     Preparing. 

A  fascinating  book  of  description  and  adventure  has  been 
written  by  the  famous  traveler  and  explorer,  who  has  passed 
years  of  his  life  within  the  Artie  Circle.  Mr.  Stefansson 
has  had  a  vast  amount  of  material  upon  which  to  draw,  and 
he  has  made  his  selection  wisely.  He  has  lived  with  the  Es- 
kimos for  long  periods;  he  knows  their  language;  he  has 
subsisted  on  their  food;  he  has  heard  their  legends;  he  has 
seen  them  in  their  daily  lives  as  have  few  explorers.  Con- 
sequently his  remarks  about  this  primitive  and  matter-of- 
fact  people  are  shrewd,  true,  and  frequently  amusing.  The 
experiences  and  tales  which  he  recounts,  mirroring  the  hard- 
ships and  the  inspirations  of  life  in  a  fearful  but  wonderful 
country,  compose  a  work  quite  the  most  absorbing  on  it  that 
has  ever  been  published. 

The  Barbary  Coast 

BY  ALBERT  EDWARDS 
Author  of  "Panama,"  "Comrade  Yetta,"  etc. 

With  many  illustrations.     Decorated  cloth,  I2mo.     Preparing. 

Albert  Edward's  "Panama:  The  Canal,  the  Country,  and 
the  People"  has  gone  into  many  editions  and  received  wide 
and  favorable  comment.  Much  may,  therefore,  be  expected 
of  this  new  descriptive  volume,  in  which  Mr.  Edwards  relates 
some  of  his  remarkable  and  always  interesting  experiences  in 
the  states  of  northern  Africa.  Mr.  Edwards  does  not  write 
with  a  history  or  a  book  at  his  elbow;  what  he  says  does  not 
come  to  the  reader  from  a  second-hand  knowledge.  He  has 
been  in  Africa  himself  and  he  writes  out  of  his  own  life. 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


UCSB   LIBRARY 


GREAT       AKI 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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